We rented a movie last night, not in the old fashioned way with the awkward passes in the new release section, silently muttering under your breath as a woman stands blocking all of the titles starting with the letter H through M and then the guy in front of you at the counter disputes the $57 late charge for a Jackie Chan flick they say he had out for three weeks. And not the new way, with the snazzy red envelopes that arrive in your mail box, the chick flicks always arriving when you crave bang-bang shoot’em up movies and the kids features showing up just when you’ve vowed to live a Disney-free existence. Nope, we did it with the old remote, clicking through the movies on demand and picking one that appealed to us both (feeling uncharacteristic third-trimester magnanimity, I offered to not watch What Not to Wear).
“Is it a repeat?” Sean asked.
“Is it a guy?” as he popped his head into the room.
“Why don’t you want to watch it?” He asked, nearly incredulous and trying to feign nonchalance.
“Because I know you don’t really like it and I’d rather just do something we can both enjoy, “I said looking him dead in the eye and smiling.
Cocking his head a bit like an animal sensing a trap he said, “Popcorn?” And with that we settled in for a Friday evening of mindless escapism compliments of Time Warner Cable and Timothy Olyphant. Neither of us are going to mover forward in life any the wiser for having watched it, but it provided sufficient diversion from home improvements, the terrible twos, the mystifying almost-fours and a few work related issues that seem to defy remedy.
I found myself completely engrossed in the implausible world of hit-men trained from birth, that is until this wee lass I am due to birth soon began her shenanigans. Try as I might to follow the action on the screen, the litter of kittens that appeared to be wrestling beneath my shirt made it hard to focus. Writhing and undulating, my little stowaway, was determined to be at the center of my attention, at one point actually boot kicking my popcorn bowl and sending irresistibly puffy and perfectly seasoned kernels skittering down my belly to points unreachable by my limited-by-girth vision.
It began to take on a sort of 3-D-but-better quality. The actors on the screen battled with knives, swords, guns and fists, my belly and pelvis seemed to be taking the same blows, a piercing stab to my bladder, blunt force to my ribcage and glancing pummels upon my midsection. I was in it, of course I doubt that Tim of the brooding eyes, bald and bar-coded head ever had to pee as badly as I did.
A part of me held the candle of hope that just maybe all the activity would spur a little something, allowing me not face the prospect of another week of attempting to clothe myself in a professionally appropriate fashion. Alas, t’was not to be. Here I sit, most decidedly still pregnant, and the contractions and contortions continue apace. Maybe we’ll try a little Jackie Chan tonight.