SquibSquab

Here at SquibSquab we have been working through our own version of a twelve-step recovery program for, oh, about the last twenty-three years or so.  Recovering from what, you ask?  The traditional catalogue of chemical dependencies–alcohol, pot, and something white in either powder or pill form that makes you scrub your tub at 3:00 a.m.?  Nope.  A sexaholic that frequents truck stops and the fourth floor restroom at the university library?  Not quite.  Carbs and chocolate?  Good guess, but no again.

We do not know the name of our–addiction is too ugly a word–for our predilection, let’s call it–for our predilection toward a certain aesthetic.  But, if we had to name it, it would be something like Merchantivoritis, or maybe Juliansandthrax, or perhaps Helenaium Bonham Cartusion.  Whatever it is, it hit us like a brick in 1985 when we saw A Room with a View for the first time. And the second. And the third.  We’ve probably seen the movie at least ten or more times over the years, but that first year, we saw it three times. 

Everyone warns of the ills of Hollywood, that it will turn young, impressionable minds toward a life of crime, violence, and/or debauchery.  No one ever warns that too much Hollywood–well, Merchant-Ivory flicks aren’t exactly Hollywood–but no one ever says, “Watch this and you’ll spend the rest of your life longing to be kissed in a field of violets in Fiesole.”  Your dear author went to Fiesole once–with her sister–and though it was indeed glorious and perfect, and the church bells rang while we dined outside on a crisp, early spring morning on fresh pastry and hot cappuccino, George Emerson was no where in sight.  Sigh.

But we digress.

What we are trying to say is that our life is not like and will never be like Lucy Honeychurch’s life.  And it’s not just Merchant-Ivory films. There are no buff, sexy, sweaty men riding in on horseback after a military victory while we women rush back to our quarters to carelessly shed our petticoats, freshen up a bit, and then squeeze into our corsets (tits up, ladies!), like in the opening scene of that other favorite of ours, Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing.  We have no other-worldly powers to transform chocolate from mere food of the gods to a spiritual elixir capable of healing body and soul–and enabling us to snag the hottest river rat around–like Vianne in Chocolat.  We are not mysterious, beautiful, and unattainable like the lovely Elena in Cinema Paradiso. And even though we are happily married, the thought of our marriage being refreshed by a six-week sojourn in Italy a la Enchanted April is about as ridiculous as believing that there is such a thing as a Way-Back Machine that would not only transport us to the early 20th century when the Brits actually had six-week vacations (and the average person could afford to stay in an Italian villa overlooking the Mediterranean) but would also include a change in citizenship from American to British to enable us to take advantage of that six-week vacation.

But what we can do here at SquibSquab is pretend that real life is much more romantic than it is. And so we are introducing a series called “Lawve Letters” in which we will tell the stories of very unhappy lawyers and how they found love at last.

But, unfortunately it is past our bedtime, so you’ll have to come back tomorrow for the first installment!  Oooh.  I bet you can’t wait.

(Oh, and as for that twelve step program, we’re still on step one: admitting that we are powerless over lush, eye-popping cinematography involving the Italian countryside, where hot men fall madly in love with gorgeous women, and where people are allowed to get old without getting Botox.)

Trackback URL