Mrs Romcom: Or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Netflix Original

You wake up and suddenly, everything looks a little bit oversaturated. Royalty-free off-brand generic versions of love songs seem to be playing in the background, your wardrobe is suddenly filled with fit-and-flare dresses, longline cardigans and converse, and everything smells like cinnamon. It’s finally happened to you; you’ve woken up in a Netflix Original Rom-Com.

You, for literally the first time in your life.

Uncanny Valley

You walk to the mirror; you look the same, but somehow different. You just woke up and you’re inexplicably wearing mascara, brow gel, lipstain and a little eyeshadow in the socket. You suddenly have a manicure. Your antidepressants have disappeared, but strangely you’ve got the energy to go on a five mile run in the morning? Who are you? You rummage through your work bag trying to find any semblance of your old life - a work ID, a credit card, anything? You find a stash of work IDs in your bag; in the past year you’ve been a magazine editor, a high powered lawyer and a real estate agent. Now? You’re a baker. Apparently you quit all three of your high powered jobs to move to a small town and sell baked goods. In your past life, every time you tried to make anything fancier than ramen, the house would burn down. In this life however, the recipe for a perfectly baked doughnut hole seems instinctual. You have bread in your bones.

Confused, disorientated, and oddly compelled to wear a bright pink cardigan for the first time in your life, you cautiously head outside. Yesterday, it was torrential rain. Today, the sun is out, and it’s a crisp morning. Suddenly, your neighbours are all out mowing their perfectly manicured lawns. “Beautiful day, right sweetheart!” says a neighbour as you hurry past. You haven't spoken to a neighbour once in your entire life. The street used to live in a stony silent peace - now housewives are delivering miscellaneous cobblers and pot pies to their neighbours. Various husbands are mowing various lawns. Did we always have a milk delivery service???

You find your way to the bakery, which you apparently own. In your defence, the bread smells good. A ring at the door - it’s your best friend! Thank god, she still exists in this world - yet somehow, for the life of you, you can’t remember her name. Something generic like Katie or Laura? Best Friend had recently gone through a personal trauma, and things were getting rough at work, so you figured she’d be a reliable portal back to the real world.

Enter: Best Friend

“Hi bestie! So, let’s talk about the new rugged bartender slash carpenter who happens to be working on the bakery renovations.”

“What the fuck are you talking about ???? Your house literally just burnt down and you’ve had to move in with a bunch of firemen and one firewoman! Since when have I owned a bakery? Why am I wearing a longline cardigan? What is happening to me?”

But the words don’t come out. Instead, you have a five minute conversation about a man - not once does Best Friend offer any information about her life, let alone what her name is. You discuss how this new Rugged Bartender Slash Carpenter is a total dreamboat, but he’s got that mean fiancee who works as a banker and is blonde. She’s always saying stuff like, “come on honey, we’re going to be late for our reservation.” She doesn’t understand his dream of building and opening a bar where musicians and artists could share their work. She doesn’t understand him like you do.

Apparently anyway. All your memories of your old life are gradually fading and the only thing that seems to matter is the Rugged Bartender Slash Carpenter.

And in a moment of serendipity, in he walks. Everything is in slow motion. Another royalty-free generic love song starts playing. It’s like a low calorie version of Sixpence None the Richer. You head towards the counter to take his order and blam. You’ve done a spectacular pratfall. What did you even trip over? Who knows. Life is hard being such a klutz though - the perils of being so damn adorkable.

A Fairytale Ending

He rushes over to check you’re okay. Obviously not really, he doesn’t check for any injuries or neurological symptoms. He doesn’t even help clean up the two dozen croissants that somehow went flying everywhere. Regardless - he’s your hero, and he smells like wood oil. After what feels like ten minutes of staring into each other's eyes, you offer him a baked good as a thanks.

“I’d love one, but sadly I can’t. My bitch fiancee has me on a diet before the wedding.” You could probably question why he even came to a bakery in the first place, but instead let’s just focus on how much of a bitch his fiancee is.

“Oh, of course. When is the wedding again?”

“Today,” he says bitterly as he helps you up, dusting flour off his plaid shirt. “I just came by to give you this.” He takes off his beanie and presents it to you, with great ceremony. “My bitch fiancee hates this hat, but I remember you saying how a grey beanie reminds you of safety and your childhood, so I wanted you to have it.”

As you take the hat, your fingers touch. Sparks fly. Suddenly, you see a montage of all the time you’ve spent together - snowball fights, baking, gondola rides, ferris wheels, eating a really long piece of spaghetti, filling a room with an unnecessary, and frankly concerning amount of candles. In retrospect, you think you’ve just figured out why Best Friend’s house burned down, but you’ve realised something much more important. You’re in love!

Without a word, the two of you embrace in a passionate kiss. Best Friend (who has been here silently the entire time) starts cheering. People on the street start cheering. Off-brand Sixpence None The Richer starts blaring in the background. Looks like the two of you have a wedding to get to.

By the time the credits have started rolling, an internal fog starts to set in and you’ve fully eased into your new life. You stopped fighting, and now a chilling warmth runs through you. You can get used to longline cardigans if it means endless income to do nonsense like take spontaneous trips to Paris and buy first edition Jane Austen books as a romantic gesture. You don’t actually need to have conversations about anything other than a man. Your brain is smooth, the sequel has been greenlit, and you’ve never been happier.

Your wedding. Probably.