We had an uncharacteristically active weekend. Active, though, is subjective.
On Sunday, we hiked the Pomo Canyon Trail, or as I like to call it, the "Ben, I can't go on. It's no use" Trail. Five miles (roundtrip) of hilly terrain, the trail was our opportunity to enjoy the surroundings of our own county. Although the hike reaffirmed that I'm horribly out of shape, it did prove that I'm a bit stronger than I thought.
Physically, at least.
The day before, Saturday, we went to see Bridget Jones's Diary. Now this may strike you as a rather dull way to spend a holiday-weekend Saturday. True. Yet, going to a theater is quite the luxury in our household. Like I have mentioned before, I don't handle crowds well and there is nothing more distracting than watching a film amidst chatty, noisy, strangers consuming loud food. Most people love watching films -- I'm one of those people. But I hate going to the theater and it takes a lot of convincing to get me in the car and actually subject myself to the torture of a shared space.
Okay, I'm not that bad; I'm not that crazy. I just have a very low tolerance for people not following the rules of the theater -- people who start talking as soon as the lights go down. Although I hate to admit it, I'm a shusher.
When Ben and I went to see The Ice Storm a few years back, the man sitting behind us tried his darndest to live up to the role of the movie-going blowhard in Annie Hall. You know, the man standing behind Alvy and Annie spouting insights about Fellini and Marshall McLuhan?
Annoyed only at the volume of his comments and his pomposity, I realized that I didn't have the right to say anything since the lights were still up. When the trailers began playing and his volume or his viewpoints didn't subside, I began freaking out.
Me (in Ben's ear): He's not going to stop talking. I can't believe it!
Ben: Just watch the movie.
Me: I can't take it. He won't shut-up. Isn't he bothering you?
Ben: No!
Me: Why not?
Ben: He just isn't. Do something about it or be quiet.
After snappishly glancing back toward his direction five or ten times, I forced myself to verbalize my frustration. I resolved to say something if he uttered a word after the actual film began.
Me (to the man): Are you going to talk during the entire film?
Blowhard: Um, yes. If I please.
What could I do now? I had just created a situation I hated more -- making myself a target of ridicule. He made some cracks about me to his companion and then didn't utter a word for the rest of the movie. I spent the entire film thinking about him and how I readily stepped into the role of the fool.
And I didn't even have Marshall McLuhan to bail me out.
