YOU Hold The Talking, I'LL Hold My Sweater

For someone who hardly ever goes to the movies, it's actually one of my favorite activities. Not that it's something active exactly, but when the parking lot is full, I do have to walk a long way to get inside. Surely that's the same thing.

Unfortunately, me getting to the movies doesn't happen very often. For the past few years - and the next few years, presumably - babies needed to be nursed, dinners needed to be prepared, and baths needed to be had (by the kids, too). Only if I'm absolutely desperate to see a new movie or if the planets align with an early enough showing + kids in bed before showtime + a free babysitter, will we sneak out of the house for a movie date. Throw in some gift certificates and a stop for frozen custard on the way home and you have the perfect night, in my opinion.

I think I've been to about 2 movies in the past 2 years. One was a case of I MUST GO SEE THIS MOVIE (Twilight, if you must know...) and the other was a case of sudden and unexpected planetary alignment (Star Trek: not my usual first choice. Luckily, I really enjoyed it - then again, just being at the theater makes me so giddy that I might not have been the best judge.)

And now, I have seen a THIRD movie. I know, right?! Extravagant. If I keep this up I may become so spoiled by cinematic excitement that the smell of buttered popcorn will fail to rouse my heartfelt adoration.

OK, so that will never happen. I will always purchase movie theater popcorn, always. This is incontrovertible.

What could have possibly encouraged me to see another movie so soon on the heels of my last theater visit? One: My friend Jill invited me, and I lurve Jill. Two: Justin stayed home with the kids. Three: The movie was based on a Jodi Picoult novel, and I lurve Jodi Picoult.

So we went to see My Sister's Keeper, way past my bedtime.

And here is where I started noticing just how very old I am getting. I left the house at the time I am usually getting ready for bed and settling in for some blog-stalking. My routine was interrupted. I suddenly had a vision of myself as a feisty blue-hair insisting upon having my frozen dinner while watching Wheel of Fortune before having a dessert of peaches and cottage cheese and falling asleep on the couch during the 10 o'clock news. Not wanting to make that an early reality, I embraced the change in routine and skedaddled across town to meet Jill.

The truth of my getting older was emphasized again as soon as I stepped out of my car with my SWEATER. It was about 85 degrees that night, and I had my just-in-case sweater draped over my arm like a beacon of lost youth. And I was glad I had it too - just moments into the movie, my pale white arms were shivering. I almost asked Jill to snuggle with me, but she might not have invited me to any more movies if I'd done that. Plus, I wouldn't have been as effectively able to hide my snotty, heaving sobs.

More evidence of my age confronted me in the popcorn line. There were at least 6 young, vibrant girls waiting ahead of me. Each one was dressed in what I assume was fashionable attire, complete with dangly jewelry, jumbo purses (handbags?!), and strappy sandals. Their hair? Perfect, shiny, sleek, and straight, curtaining down their backs and around their faces. Zoom back to the end of the line where I stood in my oldest jeans, a plain tank, and flip flops, and the difference was glaring. I was suddenly very aware of the trajectory of my uncovered ears from my pony-tailed head. I wasn't sloppy or anything; my clothes were clean and fit me the right way. But when compared to those perfectly dressed and accessorized young ladies, I looked downright dull. Not that I minded too much; they were going to fuh-reeze in those skirts and spaghetti straps. My sweater would have ruined their outfits, but at least I'd be comfortable.

Even Jill, my fellow mom, was no help in that area: she looked adorable in her summery skirt.

The nail was hammered into the coffin when I scissor walked into the house in fear of losing bladder control from the unusual amount of soda I'd consumed. My usual amount of soda is zero ounces, so the small coke tipped me over the edge. I rushed past my sleepy husband into the bathroom where I attempted to unzip my jeans. Attempted because...

They were already unzipped. And had been for the entire night. As in, unzipped while I waited behind the impeccably groomed co-eds. Unzipped while I snuggled in my sweater, unaware of the draft on my lower half. Unzipped while I chatted with Jill in the ticket line.

I would have laughed at the embarrassment, but that would have caused me to wet myself. (Darn childbirth...) Proving, yet again, that I am no longer young. Curse you, movie theater, for bringing this to my attention.

I didn't mean it, theater...I'll be back sometime in the next 8 months to demonstrate my faithful love...and can you please turn the volume down when I get back?