I was all of 13 when I watched Pretty Woman and was swept off my feet. The impossible relationship that bloomed amidst the marble contours, impeccable silverware and glass façade of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel may essentially be just another version of Cinderella — beautiful princess rescued from darkness by knight in shining armour (or bespoke suits). But for a dreamy-eyed teenager who loved her Regency romance novels, had a crush on Rhett Butler, and liked to wear (imagine, in Chennai) the black and white lace dress that Eliza Doolittle wore at the Ascot races and still believed that all you needed was love, it was perfect. It had all that made a story complete — an endearing female lead, a jaded, Byronic hero who cannot help but fall in love with her, a thoroughly unlikable antagonist, lovely, lovely clothes (and lots of them), some rather nicely shot intimate scenes in bathtubs and over pianos and most importantly, a happily ever after.
Pretty Woman, the romantic comedy film, turned 25 last month, so I decided to celebrate the anniversary by watching the movie (at 9 in the morning, mind you. Yes, I got in late to work, but that qualifies as research now). I’ll be honest; a lot that I felt about the movie stays the same. I’m still not sure whether my favourite outfit in the movie is that black lace cocktail dress, the scarlet floor-length stunner or the polka-dotted silk dress and the broad-brimmed hat. I still have a soft corner for world-weary men with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes who will look at me the way Richard Gere looks at Julia Roberts in the movie and tell me I am beautiful.
I would like to indiscriminately shop for clothes and bags and shoes and not worry about diminishing bank accounts and rent to be paid. And yes, when I go out on a date, I always thank him for it and tell him that I’ve had a good time.
But I also know today, 15 years and a few relationships later, that the definition of an ideal relationship has changed. You no longer want to be rescued, and you do not wish to go to the endless bother of trying to rescue someone back. What you begin to want is an equal meeting of the mind and heart, conversation, laughter and stability. Drama is fun in small doses; too much of it is unnerving. You learn that often goodbyes are inevitable — whether they occur in a luxury suite of a hotel, the terminus of an airport, over a cup of coffee or in a library — and that more often than not, they are for the best. You learn that endings and beginnings are often indefinable, that even novelties become mundane, that love is a verb not a noun, that longevity is hard work.
As chick-lit writer Marian Keyes, says, “Relationship gurus always said that an attraction based on friendship and mutual respect was far more likely to stay the course — and they were right.”
PS: I’d love to chuck a snail at someone in a fancy restaurant though.
