I know this woman who run away from work yesterday. She told a whopper of a lie, saying that her appointment was 2.5 hours before it actually was, so she could nip off to the cinema to see one her most favourite movies ever.
She nicked off at midday feeling mildly exhilarated and trying to ignore the guilt nibbling away at her stomach. When it took her half an hour to find a park in the school holiday frenzy, she should have realised it was not meant to be. But she found a space so far away from the cinema she may as well have parked on the moon, and had to hobble along in the too-high heels to make the movie on time, tripping over stairs and people, but she made it.
She teetered into the theatre and chose one of those aging vinyl seats that go “ppppphhhhssssst!” when you sink into it. She slumped low, heart racing, wondering What the hell am i doing here. The lights dimmed and she stupidly decided she’d like a souvenir screen shot of the occassion! Her teeny tiny digicam, bought specifically for it’s spycam capabilities, was cleverly disguised inside her makeup bag, with just the lens poking out. Unfortunately she forgot to switch off the flash, and her anominity was destroyed in a blazing gust of light. But at least she got a great shot of the opening credits.
Soon she was lost in the film, despite having seen it a hundred times before, including the previous Saturday. But it was on at the cinema, and how often do you get the chance to see classic movies on the big screen? They were screening it for one week only and 1pm was the only session! So her debauchery is entirely justified! If only she could ignore the guilt clanging away in her gut like maracas.
It saddens me how desperate this girl has become, when the only excitement in her life is a covert trip to the flicks, and for romance she has to live vicariously through a movie almost 50 years old. I mean, there’s no hot action in that movie, there’s a kiss or two, but in 1953 all they did was press lips in the general direction of the other, no movement, nary a hint of tongue. Just significant looks and teary eyes and a whole lot of longing. And how can she lust after Gregory Peck? Sure he had the most fantastic eyebrows in cinematic history, but he’d have to be 90 by now, and those eyebrows have become that horrid steel-woolish feral caterpillars, and with the same kind of hair now unfurling from his ears and nostrils and god knows where else.
At the end of the film her eyes are salty and stinging and she’s gulping and hiccupping and honking into her aloe vera tissues, coz she hopes maybe this time Audrey Hepburn will turn around and say “To hell with this damn pampered princess life! I want to live with a underpaid hack and eat gelato and shag on the Spanish Steps!”.
She’d float gracefully over to him, as Audrey never had a problem with high heels, and Gregory would raise his crazy eyebrows in a significant manner and scoop her right up…
But no. It was the same bittersweet ending. So the pathetic romantic girl gallumphed her way out of the cinema and back to her car, was terribly late for her appointment, but felt so daring after her adventure. For about 5 minutes before the guilt came marching back.