I’ll be the very first person to admit it: I hate a lot of girly things. I run screaming at the idea of huge, fairytale weddings, most traditional romantic gestures make me want to vomit and I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be able to walk in heels. (And really, why would I want to? Being five foot nine puts me at the great advantage of not needing the extra height.)


However, I need to come clean about something. A deep, dark secret has been burning in me for most of my life (okay, at least the last few years,) and the only way I will ever be able to fully embrace it is to go public.

My name is Kate Duffy and I am a bonafied chick-flick lover.

While I may not yearn for the by-the-book endings that these movies provide their loyal female audiences in my own life, I genuinely enjoy watching them. Reese Witherspoon as a New York designer engaged to a pre-“Grey’s Anatomy” Patrick Dempsey returning home to the Deep South to divorce her far more awesome ex-husband in Sweet Home Alabama? Yep, seen that about 10 times (including this past Valentine’s Day, holed up in my friend’s living room.) And, quite honestly, asked how many times I’ve viewed Sixteen Candles, or just about any movie with Molly Ringwald as the main character, I’d be hard-pressed to give you an answer, but if I had to guess, the number would probably be well above 60.

For most of my adolescent life, I repressed these feelings of immense joy I felt for these movies. Asked what my favorite movie is, I’d usually resort to telling the inquirer that it was probably a dead tie between A Clockwork Orange and Taxi Driver, neither of which are particularly warm and fuzzy. But the questions nagged at me endlessly. True, I did and still do love those movies. But why was I so ashamed to admit my love for the less-celebrated, far girlier films I secretly coveted? True, Matthew McConaughey annoys me to the point of ripping my hair out, but did that take away from the love I clandestinely felt for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days? I think not.

I guess the truth about the chick flick is they aren’t meant to be that good. Call me crazy, but I really don’t think the producers of these movies are serious about advertising the message that men frequently partake in inane, sappy declarations of love and always-ALWAYS seem to say the right thing at the right time at the right place. For me, the chick flick is the anti-life, the epitome of lame, and yet one of the greatest pleasures imaginable. Sometimes I just don’t feel like being serious. Can I really be blamed for wanting to watch a movie that reflects just that attitude?

So here I am, going boldly forward in declaring my love. Do I feel a bit silly? Yes. Do I feel like I’m probably going to regret this confession the second this issue is published? Sure do. But I know deep down that I am not alone here, so join me in courageously going forth with chick flick love, loyal readers! All closet chick-flickers can reach me anytime for a confession at [email protected].