Sunday evenings, for the average 20-to-30-something-year-olds, are for fighting the Sunday scaries. We’d be returning our wallets to our work bag from our weekend purse, while trying to ignore pre-work anxieties. Truth be told, this wasn’t how I imagined my grown-up Sundays would be; they didn’t exactly show this part in the 2000s romcoms I watched growing up.
Andie Anderson didn’t go through the Sunday scaries before clocking back in at Composure Magazine. The worst Andy Sachs had it at Runway Magazine was complaining incessantly about her boss and flipping out at her friends on a night out. Where’s my romcom job? Is being named Andy a prerequisite for having a romcom job?
“Romcom jobs” are the seemingly fabulous jobs that romcom leads have. They either work in publishing, fashion, or in a boutique bakery. Andie Anderson writes one “How-To” article per month while having fun with her girls at the office. Andy Sachs got access to archival designer pieces courtesy of a kind, older coworker. These jobs weren’t just tools to sustain their lifestyles; they were portrayed as glamorous extensions of their personal identities.
Now, the 2000s romcoms boast more than cute romance and clothes; they represent the collective grief of a version of work stability that no longer exists in our current corporate landscape.
Those movies made office jobs look intoxicating. You walk into the office surrounded by glossy magazine spreads, walls of mood boards, everyone dressed to the nines. It’s such a thrill to turn on 13 Going on 30 and watch Jenna Rink plan an issue by cutting out magazine pages, making a physical mood board, and presenting the cover proofs to a buzzing boardroom. Or witnessing Andy Sachs delivering “The Book” to Miranda Priestly across the office and town in her gorgeous outfits in The Devil Wears Prada.
Offices filled with racks of beautiful clothes and walls of mood boards, and the jobs that come out of them undoubtedly still exist. What makes these movies increasingly unbelievable today is the jobs’ pay. How are these women affording a one-bedroom apartment in New York City? The icon for this discourse is none other than Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw. This freelance writer, who writes one column a week for The New York Star, has a spacious one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, complete with a walk-in closet full of Manolo Blahniks and an endless supply of cigarettes.
Okay, what about romcom leads with a more “traditional” job? Jane Nichols is an executive assistant at Urban Everest, an outdoor apparel and philanthropic company. Despite earning a standard administrative salary in New York City, she lives in a classically beautiful apartment with a massive living and kitchen area, dedicated closet space for her 27 bridesmaid dresses, and a generous bedroom and everyday wardrobe. These films sold the myth that a mid-level creative job can pay for a luxurious lifestyle.
Yet the massive apartment and fabulous wardrobe are only a part of the myth. The dream isn’t complete without effortless authority in her industry. In Confessions of a Shopaholic, Rebecca Bloomwood, with no background in financial journalism or even decent financial literacy, writes one article under a pseudonym and instantly becomes a global sensation, earning her a TV appearance. Or How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’s Andie Anderson, whose personal dating experience became the story for Composure, giving her career leverage and widespread attention.
Fast forward 20 years, the ecosystem in which these fantasies thrive has been demolished. Print journalism is rapidly dissolving, taking with it the stable staff positions and cushy editorial budgets. The dream of a full-time job at a monthly magazine has been replaced by the reality of the freelance gig economy. Even with full-time jobs in other industries, many people have side hustles to live out their desired lifestyles or pursue their personal passions.
This changing professional landscape, and the increasingly cynical view of the workforce, show up in how modern romcoms portray jobs. Today’s leads are rarely living the life of professional luxury. Set It Up is a perfect example of how contemporary early-career life is depicted on screen. Harper Moore, a CEO’s executive assistant, lives at the office, and her hair is perpetually kind of messy. Assistants aren’t gallivanting to cool shoots or private clubs; they are trapped in toxic corporate hierarchies, missing out on personal life, and doing the most outrageous tasks. While not far from how Andy Sachs’s career at Runway started, the corporate world is depicted very differently. There is no payoff for the burnout, no Chanel boots to make it up.
2024’s Upgraded also depicts early-career life in the arts world as cutthroat. Ana Santos has to resort to lies and a once-in-a-generation serendipitous meet-cute to get noticed in a hyper-competitive industry where moving up the career ladder seems more like a treacherous hike.
When contemporary media tries to resurrect the romcom job, it no longer reads as aspirational; it reads as pure camp. In Emily in Paris, Chicago-based junior marketing executive Emily Cooper lands a transfer to Paris. Despite her lack of cultural fluency, Emily somehow saves luxury accounts with hashtags, goes viral overnight, and steps out of her “humble” apartment in endless designer clothes. And listen, while I laugh, comparing my experience with clients at a marketing agency with Emily Cooper’s, I will not trade that show for anything. It’s pure escapism.
It’s the same with the 2000s romcoms that I keep rewatching. I watch them not because I believe I’ll live out my romcom job lifestyle, but to escape and bask in a bygone era when work felt human and was rewarded fairly with stability and a sense of belonging. As the traditional career path continues to erode, these movies and their romcom jobs stand as historical relics: monuments to dream careers that died before we ever got to put our hats in the ring.
