Doomed by Darcy

This is a message to all my nearest and dearest. There is a very strong likelihood that you may not see me again for some time. You will be greatly missed. I, on the other hand, apparently will not. And therefore, I will be contactable only via the knocking down of my front door, dragging me out from beneath a pit of duvets and prising the Ben and Jerry’s from my desperate clasp.

Yesterday, my worst fears were confirmed. Until recently, the main thing seeing me through my current state of singledom was the naive assumption that maybe, just maybe, my knight in shining armour would one day turn up at my workplace and whisk me away in a fantastic Officer and a Gentleman style exit, ready to begin our rose-tinted life together. Admittedly, this is a bit far-fetched, but the sentiment has always been there, leading me to hope that I might not have to endure my days alone in front of the TV with a bottle of wine and the rest of last night’s curry.

But I now have verification that this is never going to happen. It has officially been confirmed. Not by a friend over an emotional and enlightening three bottles of wine. Not by the insensitive, overpaid columnists of today’s glossy magazines. Not even by my Mother (who will always tell me the truth no matter how much it hurts). It has been proven by scientists. Actual professionals. With research and evidence and statistics. And it hurts.

According to a group of researchers in Edinburgh, women like myself who envelop themselves in the beautiful world of Rom Coms are more likely to die sad and alone. Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but they may as well have. Apparently, these sensationalised chick flicks fill their viewers’ minds with unrealistic expectations of love, causing them to sabotage their relationships for not being ‘perfect’.

Unfortunately, I can see their point (hence the duvet-hiding and potential death-by-ice cream). But some of their other findings are just ridiculous, and quite frankly insulting.

For example, and I quote: “Researchers found fans of films such as Runaway Bride and Notting Hill often fail to communicate with their partner.” I resent that. Runaway Bride happens to be one of my all-time favourites and, if anything, I have the longstanding female problem of communicating too much with my partners.

Probably the most extraordinary claim was that: “Marriage counsellors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect”. Who are they kidding? Anyone who had ever had perfect sex please raise their hands. Most of the women I know consider simply achieving an orgasm an accomplishment. And besides, I was under the impression that after about ten or so years of marriage, sex becomes more of a chore than a pleasure…and one which would be happily substituted for a ten-minute shoulder rub and an hour of ITV Drama.

So really, either way I’m screwed. Either I live out my days as a spinster, watching repeats of the Rom Coms that lead to my demise, or as an old married woman whose husband gets more aroused by Jeremy Clarkson speeding round a racetrack than by the sight of me in a lacy undergarment.

Right, that’s it, pass me a spoon…