Falling far short of movie stalking standards

As I was channel surfing the television one night, I happened upon a poorly-made movie about a man who had it bad for a certain woman in a non-good way. After their first meeting, he had felt himself smitten with her and not long afterward found himself standing outside of her house at night, trying to get another glimpse of her. I hate when that happens!

Of course, she was drop-dead gorgeous and wore only Victoria’s Secret in the way of garments, which she was prone to donning in sensuous slow-motion, visible in silhouette form through the sheer curtains on the window of her second-story bedroom. Little was left to the imagination of the voyeuristic man who had strategically positioned himself for the free, late-night peep show.

I turned the channel to avoid rolling my eyes through the next scene, when the woman would predictably choose to look out the window, notice the glow of his burning cigarette and gaze, let out a pseudo-startled gasp designed to make her bosom heave, and shoot him a lip-licking come-hither look, just before inviting him in, versus either shooting him on sight or dialing 9-1-1 and/or his parole agent, the way I might.

Pardon me, lovers of light porn movies and smarmy romance novels, but I have trouble suspending judgment and common sense long enough to get fully engaged in the plotline, however scant it may be. This is not a recent development, but one that happened immediately upon reading my first romance novel at the age of 13.

A few Harlequin romances later, I felt not just un-titillated, but truly baffled as I attempted to follow the psychology presented. I mean, logically, what business did a cute, 19-year-old highly-spirited governess have falling deeply in love with a powerful and insanely handsome 35-year-old man who had lost a wife to either tragic death or traumatic infidelity, as well as spent the first 175 pages of the book treating her like dog crap?

The only case in which I have been able to overlook the ridiculous implausibility of this basic plot is with the musical, “The Sound of Music.” And that was only because Julie Andrews’ supernatural singing Siren-songed me into believing a young, irresponsible nun could successfully transform herself into the matriarch of a wealthy household containing seven children, seamlessly partnering with Christopher Plummer, who had treated her like dog crap the majority of the movie.

Otherwise, I have had trouble buying the idea that women secretly desire men who treat them badly and/or like them for the wrong reasons. This may seem like sour grapes on my part, you know, someone envying objectified women because I’m not likely to get a second glance from most objectifiers. Not so. Hard as it is to believe, I have had some secret sicko admirers over the years. Believe me, stalking is not as sexy as it is scary. It’s also damned inconvenient and can get expensive when personal protection orders, stronger locks and thicker curtains become necessary.

Some stalkers set their bar lower than Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition models and train their sleazy, slumming sights on unsuspecting average-looking women. Clueless and busy as I am, one time, I didn’t even notice I was being stalked. While I probably should have been afraid, there was no room left to write “be afraid” on my to-do list, so I didn’t.

It crossed my mind that if someone were going to be following me or peeping in my windows, I needed to start dressing and acting more stalk-worthily. This prompted my writing a hilarious letter to my stalker, questioning his judgment. I never sent it because I didn’t have the time to cut and paste together individual letters and words out of magazines, his preferred form of correspondence.

In it, I apologized for having short hair that couldn’t be tossed seductively, bathing behind a non-sheer shower curtain, failure to shave my legs, buying my underwear in multi-packs at the grocery store, and wearing sweatpants and t-shirts to my flannel-sheeted bed. I will definitely need to change my ways if I hope to catch Mr. Voyeuristic Right who will treat me like dog crap. Sorry to disappoint.

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