Ten years ago last week, The Notebook took our nation's feel-holes by storm. Nick Cassavetes's adaptation of Nicholas Sparks's novel—starring Ryan Gosling at PEAK shoulder-to-waist ratio—struck some emotional brown note of sentimentality and hunkiness and forbidden love and manipulative sentimentality, and remains the standard by which all other romantic weepies are judged. I've seen people get misty-eyed just talking about this movie. I've slipped on puddles of cry-snot in the Mead aisle at Walgreens. But even though I love vintage dresses and kissing as much as the next lady-blogger, somehow I bumbled through this entire decade without ever actually watching The Notebook. So today, in honor of its (belated) birthday, I took the plunge.
And I have to say.
Not only did I not cry at The Notebook, The Notebook actually reached inside my face and dried up all future tears like The Notebook is Scar and my tear ducts are the Pride Lands. The "best" thing I can say about The Notebook is that it isn't as bad as Love, Actually.