Ron and I went to the movies Friday night. We went to the 8:30 showing of “The Girl On The Train.” I wanted to see this movie, because I read the book. I read the book, because I knew the movie was coming out. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? In this case, the book. Or, let’s face it, I had simply succumbed to marketing.
It never ceases to amaze me how people can arrive 10-15 minutes before the movie begins, yet decide they need to get up to use the restroom 30 minutes after the movie starts. First, the wife left. When she returned, the husband left. When each had returned to their seats, ostensibly, I hope, more comfortable, the other would fill him/her in on what had occurred while he/she was missing.
Oh, and there was a text that needed to be shared, as well.
The aforementioned restroom visiting couple were seated in the row in front of us. Let me tell you about the two ladies directly across the aisle from Ron. These 2 splendidly proper, moral and sensitive women made my $10 ticket and the 112 minutes of “The Girl On The Train” so ridiculously worthwhile and absurdly amusing, I actually wished I had thanked them.
Let me tell you right now, up front, I am going to Hell. I am in line heading to Perdition for what I was thinking about these 2 ladies, but damn, they made it so easy.
Rather than feeling annoyed with these delicate hen’s fretful babble and protestations, I embraced them. First, they arrived 5-10 minutes after the movie began (who knows, maybe they were in the restroom opting not to wait until 30 minutes into the story like the other couple). Their butts were barely in the seats and the one begins asking her friend questions about what is going on, what does this or that mean, how come this or that is happening, why would this or that be said, when did this or that happen, etc., etc., etc.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” I thought as they blathered nearly continuously. This or That. Rachel or Megan. Whose baby. Whose husband. Where is the train. Why is she drinking. What is she drinking. Scott or Tom. Kamal or Mac. Their exchange went on and on. Until…
“Oh my God!” the Questioning One blurts out in an ear-piercing bellow.
I couldn’t help myself. I really couldn’t. I didn’t even want to. I began to laugh. This. Is. So. Good. It seems Questioning One is quite unnerved by sex in the woods.
Hmmm. Poor Questioning One. I see now that “The Girl On The Train” just is not what she thought it was going to be. “Poor Questioning One,” I thought. Sex in the woods was pretty good except for some errant mosquito bites. I mean, wait. It probably might be, could be good. Just watch out for mosquitos. Maybe. If you are in the woods. Not that I would know. Just saying. Poor vexed and distressed Questioning One.
Anyway. I told you I was going THERE.
Blessedly, after that aforementioned 112 minutes had passed, the credits rolled and the theater lights began to come on. Our 2 plump, gray haired contessas began their attempt to descend the stairs, which was no easy feat, as they were balancing purses, XL sized sodas and the burden of pedestrian indignation at what they just chose to sit through.
In the lobby, the pair happen upon a couple they know, who, as you would expect, ask how the movie was. Questioning One exclaims, “I have never heard the F-word so much in all my life!”
Heading out the door of the theater, I was still laughing. This. Was. So. Good.
But, then, so was sex in the woods.