I have a piece up at Jezebel, just in time for Valentine’s Day, about the brutal irony of being a scholar of romantic comedies who got dumped on the night of February 13th:
“I hope the irony isn’t lost on you,” my sister said to me one day last February, “that this would make for an excellent start to a romantic comedy.” I threw a pillow at her and went back to sobbing.
It was not lost on me. On the morning of January 3rd, I had started my doctoral research, a feminist analysis of romantic comedies, skipping off to the New York Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center brimming with excitement and pride. And barely six weeks later, on the night of February 13th, the man I was madly in love with, a great guy with –- it must be said –- a less than perfect sense of timing, broke up with me.
I was a wreck. More than that, I was a wreck whose job it was to watch a minimum of half a dozen rom coms a week. I spent my days at the library, reading about the genre and taking regular weeping breaks that attracted pitying glances from the circulation desk clerks. I spent my nights in bed with my laptop, watching as Kate and Katherine and Meg and Julia and Drew all found true love, taking notes and nursing my very broken heart.
You can read the whole thing here.