Because I am a glutton for punishment, fairly easily swayed by the words of friends and excited by the opportunity to partake in the après-movie cocktails on the agenda, I broke one of my own rules Saturday night.
I saw a movie with a number at the end of it.
Quickly, now: Have there been any good sequels made – other than Godfather II! – that were worth the price of the popcorn that helped it go down?
Let’s all pause, shall we, as we ponder this question.
Sad, iddin it?
And what happens when the rules are broken?
That’s right: prompt, big-screen punishment.
Ladies and gentlemen, I saw Sex and The City 2 yesterday.
Let’s pause again, whilst we politely shake our heads at my being disappointed by the shallow nature and poor writing of a second movie based on an HBO series that went off the air in 2004.
And now let us pause and ponder the sound of me re-committing to my original tenet: There will be no watching of movies with numbers at the end of them.
I don’t know why such lousy movies are made. Maybe there was a bet made somewhere that a movie could not be made based on a one-liner. Perhaps the stars of this movie had boat payments to make. Possibly there was a wager that no one could make a movie that would be considered too long at one hour 26.
Whatever happened, my original instincts were correct; and I’ve decided that I should trust myself more often.
And with this in mind, I’ve been thinking.
The friendship, conversation and margaritas after the movie? Yes.
Going against one’s own instinct? No.
And so, as I say, I have been thinking. If our instincts are proven right only in hindsight, is it possible to just cut out the painful experience of having your gut feeling proven correct and just skip ahead to not having done it – again?
I think so.
I, Pearl, shall no longer buy “just one more Twinkie”, trying to recapture the childish thrill of that much sugar in one place.
I shall no longer count changing clothes as “exercise” and then profess shock when I discover, at the end of the day, that my thighs have had the seams of my jeans impressed on them.
And that thing about the Twinkies again – see the bit directly above re: inexplicable pants shrinkage.
So what did I learn today?
That going against your instinct will cost you a movie ticket, two pitchers of margaritas to wash the bad taste that 86 minutes of big-screen dreck will leave behind, and buttered-popcorn stains on your shorts that will come out in the wash.
And now that I think of it, I got off cheaply, didn’t I?
11 hours ago