'Cheesy Christmas movies have convinced me that I can find a husband in the next 12 days.'



I have a confession to make.

Over the past week, I’ve watched approximately 309590 Christmas movies on Netflix. I have no idea what any of them are called, or who stars in them, what Christmas is etc etc.

All I can tell you is that they all have one basic premise: A single, professional woman goes to her hometown for Christmas/travels to a remote place for work/goes undercover in a royal castle.

She brings with her a bunch of emotional baggage that’s definitely holding her back from finding The One – she’s a workaholic/she’s been burnt before/she’s actually three possums in a trench coat and she musn’t tell anyone.

Once she arrives at said hometown/small town/very special castle, she meets a handsome, single fella who’s tall and also has great hair.

She immediately doesn’t like this fella/can’t date this fella because he works for the big corporation which is trying to take down her small book shop/can’t be with this fella because she’s been lying about her identity.

Within a period of about two weeks, the single woman somehow gets over all this baggage and falls in love with the handsome fella.

They then get engaged… on Christmas Eve.

No matter how the story line slightly differs, it always ends with a Christmas Eve engagement/confession of love because that just makes sense.


It also always snows right at the big finish. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anywho, I’ve binged on a steady stream of this tinsel-covered bullsh*t for the past seven days and now I live in a world where I firmly believe I can solve all my problems and find myself the perfect man before Christmas.

That’s 12 days away.

Within the next 12 days I firmly believe I will get over all my body confidence issues, my anxiety, my inability to want to spend a prolonged amount of time with another human being.

I’ll – for some reason – travel to a small town where I’ll meet a tall guy with floppy hair called… Tom. Tom will immediately fall in love with me despite the fact I trip over my own feet and scream in panic every time he speaks to me.

Tom will threaten to close my bookstore but I won’t care because I’m on a tight deadline and I need someone to put a ring on it before I sit down for my annual viewing of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

My rational brain is telling me that none of this is possible, but my mistletoe brain shan’t be listening.

It wants the fairytale ending. It wants the handsome floppy-haired fella. And most importantly it wants me to star in my very own crappy Christmas movie. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯