One Day, We Will Never Forget to Wear Our Helmets…
I like movies. My favorite movies that I am willing to admit to in mixed company tend to fall under the genres of sci-fi or “cerebral” (according to NetFlix), but I do indeed hold a very, very soft spot in my heart for the cheesiest, girliest, sappiest, and most cliched romance flicks. I may very well be the only person in the world who saw and enjoyed Something Borrowed. I watch Sex and the City: The Movie when I feel down. (Please don’t close this webpage and decide that you never want to read my blog again. At least, not on account of the preceding sentence. I’m getting to my point, I promise.) And Going the Distance is actually a really, really smart comedy! (I also love love love dance-off movies but I won’t get into that now as I don’t want to lose my last 3 remaining readers…)
Anyway, what I am trying to set up for you is the reason why, one wintry, windy night last week, I crawled into bed with a rented copy of One Day, the tearjerker starring Anne Hathaway as an English chick and Jim Sturgess (previously known to me as the dude from 21) as a yummy bad boy with a soft gooey center (sorry…I digress).
So, since this is not a movie review blog (and since you will probably want to watch this movie on your own anyway, hahaha), I will only provide you the 30-second gist of One Day: dorky girl and playboy meet, flirt (for decades), respectively enter into never-meant-to-be relationship/marriage, divorce/break-up ensues, one of them becomes successful while the other kicks dirt in the career pits, they reconnect, we are led to believe in happily-ever-after, then (SPOILER ALERT!!!) Anne dies in tragic truck-bicycle collision (Anne being the cyclist, of course).
Needless to say, I enjoyed the movie immensely and had one of my most satisfying sob-fests of recent memory.
However, I also had one of my most important realizations of late shortly after wiping away my tears: most tragic tales (as well as Three’s Company) are hinged on very avoidable events (yes, I hear your collective “DUH!!!!!”). In this case, Anne, while clearly an experienced rider making her routine home-gym-home commute, was not wearing a helmet. She landed flat on the back of her head against cobblestone, and, in a completely unintended homage to Inglourious Basterds, blood poured from her damaged and irreparable skull.
Shamefully, I’ll admit that I don’t always wear my helmet. It is definitely a bit of a drizzle on the whole “I feel free as a bird on my bike!” parade. Plus it’s not flattering. And it’s one more thing I have to remember. But I’m pretty sure I will make a greater effort to don it now.
And to all of you who are presently reconsidering the extent of my intelligence and sanity because (you think) I have awful taste in movies, just remember this the next time your girlfriend drags you to a movie that you’d rather poke out your eyeballs over than watch: there just may be an important bicycle-related lesson somewhere in those lost 3 hours.
Next week: a detailed scene-by-scene critique of Friends With Benefits.