What a crock of shit.
Love is messy. People are imperfect. I look like a zombie in the morning, with breath that could peel paint. At the age of 20, ahem, I have yet to have a man serenade me to win my love. I have never had anyone run through an airport to catch me before I flew away for eternity. I live in the real world.
But I recently decided that I am going to FORCE my life into the mold of a rom-com (romantic comedy). I am going to try the things that have worked for fictional characters in the most iconic, romantic television shows and films out there. I want to be empowered and maybe find a love that will last until my own closing credits, and learn a lesson or two, as these ladies do in every single Tinsel Town tale. 
Over the next few months, I will fly on a trapeze, become a wedding waitress, ride a bull, share a spaghetti dinner doggy style, and so much more. I’ll be a Sarah Jessica, a Julia Roberts, a Drew Barrymore … and all this without a hair and makeup team, costumer, or personal trainer. I’ll be humiliating myself, while trying to prevent my personal journey toward becoming an old maid.
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To that end, I set out on my first adventure. One of my favorite Sex and the City episodes aired during their sixth season. Entitled “The Catch,” the episode involved Carrie taking a trapeze flying lesson and using it as a metaphor for her love life. I wanted to see if I would have a similar experience to hers. Would I freeze? Would my lack of trust in men cause me to plummet to the net as she did? As I do not have a fabulous sidekick a la Stanford, I headed to my lesson with the next best thing: my mom.
The crew of Trapeze Experience, P, J, and F, were my guides on an overcast and chilly day in South Florida. I had anticipated some geriatric ex-carnie teaching me how to soar through the air with the greatest of ease, but not so. P was the badass uncle, J was the slightly bitchy, totally cool older sister who kicked my ass into shape while telling me how amazing I was, and F … well, F was incredibly hot. He was Brazilian soccer player hot, and sweet and supportive to boot.
As J and F led us in a stretch, P told us our mission: To throw our legs up in the air, get our knees wrapped around the bar, and let go while arching our backs so that we could attempt the ever elusive catch. With no personal stylist, I was garbed in black leggings, white gym socks, a Batman T-shirt, and fuzzy boots. I also weigh twice what Sarah Jessica Parker does, so I am not nearly as lithe and graceful. But I flew. In the first go I missed the knee hook and fell to the net, haphazardly attempting the back flip that they wanted us to try. 
Then came the moment I’d been waiting for: The Catch. In Carrie’s first experience, she couldn’t bring herself to even attempt the catch, and landed in the net without fulfilling her assignment. Her second time, she reached her arms out, ready to trust … and was not caught.
Well, I was caught, bitches! I was caught by a handsome Turkish/Italian man with no shirt on and abs glistening with sweat. I got my knees up, held out my arms, and Batman and I flew through the air, grasped the well-muscled arms and callous-covered hands of F, and just soared. I looked up into his beautiful face, grinned, and we both let go. As I lay in the net, tears sprang to my eyes. I had done it. As I climbed down the ladder, P and I locked eyes. Mascara smeared, hair tousled by the wind, with chalk on every surface of my body, I stood proudly and said, in the most profound way possible, “I just peed a little.”
****
