So the height of misogynistic movie splendor has got to be The Wedding Date. Marketed as a “chick flick,” this one proves just how desperate and blind we women really are. In this one, we’re supposed to believe that the beautiful, successful, but of course low self-esteem-plagued “Kat” falls for, wait for it … a male escort.

Hmmm, where do I start?

Well, uh, let’s see. Does the fact that he sells himself for a living make for a stellar character reference? According to the movie, “Nick” grew up in HippieFreeLoveLand, which makes it that much easier for him to turn his body into a monetary transaction.

Next up, or rather first off, what power-that-be is so strong to allow Kat to believe that she is not whole if she doesn’t show up with some major arm candy? Conveniently, it’s her ex, another emotionally stunted male.

Let’s not even go there with her stepdad, the pillar of wisdom figure who not only knows she’s kickin’ it with a male prostitute but approves of the match, urging Kat ever forward in her pursuit of the maligned and misunderstood alpha male.

And finally, there’s the fairy tale ending. Despite sleeping with presumably hundreds (or tens and twenties, at least), Nick the man hasn’t gotten jaded enough or rubbed the wrong way (pun intended) one too many times that he doesn’t believe in True Love.

And the lovely Kat (appropriately named) is The One. And she knows he’s The One. So off they go to presumably live happily ever after. And the question of his profession? Pshaw! The possibility of jealousy or even just queasiness on her part? Unthinkable!

No wonder women cry at the end of movies like this one. After having the idea that we are indeed the weaker gender shoved down our throats (literally, in Kat’s case), we’re supposed to believe that somehow we too can achieve this achingly happy ending, despite our deep-rooted flaws.

Women don’t cry at the end of chick flicks because we’re happy. We cry because we’re disappointed, defeated, and ultimately beat down by the message that we’re not whole without a man (for straight women, at least), that the imperfect, compromising, and difficult road of a relationship isn’t good enough unless the dude’s physically hot or, at the very least, rich, and that this is what we should strive for, this is the definitive goal for our fair sex, and if we’ve somehow found ourselves stuck with a man who deems it appropriate to scratch and burp in front of us, or worse, without one at all, we have ultimately failed in our quest.

So I’m a hypocrite, right? I must’ve sat through the damn entire film to write these things. Yeah, sure, I watched it. And yeah, I’ll even watch more chick flicks. But damned if I’ll be crying at the end.

Desiree Aquino