On the sixth day of Christmas, I rejoiced in someone else’s sorrow. Lil bit.
Okay, so do you remember the story about how I worked with the chief of staff for a state senator on some crime victims’ rights legislation? And how the chief of staff was super-hot and looked like David Beckham and NOT like Philip Seymour Hoffman, as I expected? And how it was all very West Wing and I totally expected Aaron Sorkin to come walking out of the adjoining office when I finally met said David Beckham look-alike?
Well, he and I have stayed in touch, we could wind up working together in new jobs for both of us at the same place, and his uncle died two days before Christmas and his girlfriend was in the hospital and now they’re apparently spending some time apart… and I am super-excited about it.
I know. I’m horrible.
Look. I’m not excited that she was hospitalized, okay? I’m not excited that his uncle died right before Christmas. That’s incredibly sad and my heart goes out to his family, truly. And I don’t know what’s wrong with the girlfriend (or possibly un-girlfriend), but for the record? I was totally concerned even though I’ve never met her. Just today I was driving to work thinking, “I wonder how Rick’s girlfriend is doing. I hope it’s not serious. I hope she didn’t have to stay in the hospital on Christmas Day. That would have been awful.”
But you have to admit, it’s star-crossed. Woman has stalker. Woman works with never-seen man via phone and email for months to pass legislation in state. Woman races to committee hearing whilst trying to keep clothing on her person, fixes self up in office building bathroom, pretends to be as strong and together as she hopes to look while being completely frazzled and vulnerable on the inside. Woman meets man while man is holding delicious double-chocolate cookie. Instant attraction crackles. Conflict is set up: oh, if only… but we must wait until this legislation passes… and until his girlfriend is run over by a truck… can I have that cookie? Music swells, zoom tight on faces, fade to black, end scene.
We’re not talking B-grade rom-com here. We’re talking Love Actually. Something guys don’t hate to admit they like.
And no, I wasn’t actually hoping his girlfriend would get run over by a truck, or even by a Volkswagen Beetle or a SmartCar. I had completely accepted by now that she existed. I allegedly don’t know her name (it’s Sara – thanks, Rick’s Sister On His Facebook Page) but I know they just moved into a new apartment. Which makes this whole taking-time-apart-while-she-recovers-from-some-hospital-worthy-Christmas-illness thing a little awkward, I bet.
And yes. Yes, I am aware of the irony that I’m sort of excited about someone else’s heartache when I myself have been stuck in the muck of just that kind of heartache. Almost that kind.
But one person’s hell is another person’s hope, and I don’t want anyone to suffer, but I need to hope a little. Is all.
Hey, probably this will go nowhere. Probably the girlfriend will recover and they’ll reconcile and I won’t get the job working in the same building as Rick. Probably I’ll never actually see him in person again.
But it’s Christmastime. The cusp of a new year. And I love Aaron Sorkin’s writing. And a girl can dream.