So, last night P.J. and I decided to watch a movie while folding Mount St. Laundry and eating the copious amount of candy he had procured by running down our alley to Walgreens- because a) we live entirely too close to easily runnable locales and b) I will forever and ever Amen be married to a teenaged boy.
I’m a hard sell on most movies; in fact, I have a tough time committing to anything with a run time of two hours that isn’t a nap or an all-you-can-eat sushi buffet. (Just try to pry me away. Just try.)
But P.J., who inhales cinema the way that I devour hamachi, really brings his A Game to the contractual marriage clause called We Should Watch Stuff Together. Dude knows how to curate. And last night’s choice? A light n’ fluffy time travel adventure with just enough rom com to keep his (currently) emotionally fragile wife happily popping the Whoppers and Raisinets. It was called About Time, and if you could get past the fact that Rachel McAdams also played the time traveler’s wife in The Time Traveler’s Wife (which took me roughly an hour to be cool with) then I’m pretty sure you’d dig this movie, too.
It was really funny. It was really sweet. It skipped along and told the sentimental tale of a guy with unique abilities and a fantastic family and OH MY GOD WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT CHARACTER IS DYING?!
Without spoiling what’s admittedly still a really fantastic film, I’ll tell you this much: Someone dies. And it’s really, really sad. P.J. watched in horror as we quickly pivoted from mutual chuckling to his slow-motion attempt to rip the TV’s cord from the wall like a regretful elephant: NOOOOOOOOOO….
And thennnn, we were crying. Me. Specifically me. Because I’ll tell you this- when you’re losing a loved one, everything in cinema or books or billboards is about dying. It just is. I’ve started calling TV shows Cancer and the Cancer Cancer (with special guest Cancer).
But something good did come about of my soggy-faced 1 a.m. emotional flattening. No, truly. Because a major point of the story was to look- really look- at each day like it’s your first and your last and there aren’t any do-overs. Which is incredibly hard when you’re covered in children and have the warring weights of extreme guilt, extreme to-do lists, and extreme apathy crushing the space between your ears. And it’s all well and good to say I’ll put away the internet for the day and Be Present for each and every instance of my waking life- but even if I intend to spend the day baking gingerbread and molding Play Doh zebras, the realities of cat puke and deadlines and sisters bickering over a broken Hello Kitty pencil sometimes harsh my Martha Stewart Living mellow. And sometimes- sometimes- being mindful means keeping unhappy thoughts in the forefront of your mind when you’re physically, mentally, and physiologically tired of thinking about them.
Sometimes being present is both a blessing and a penance.
Thanks, scrambled egg heart. I needed that.
And I’ve said it before- there’s no shortage of individuals who’ll ping the “It goes by so fast” zinger into your heart during a time when you’re really, really, really aware of time’s fleeting nature. In fact, here’s the footage of me saying just that during last year’s wonderful Listen To Your Mother Chicago Show (and incidentally, you should buy tickets for May 3rd’s show here):
Actually, that’s not true. I wouldn’t do any of this differently. I would just want it again, but slower this time. Because it goes by so fast.
GAGGGGGG.
But it does. So I’ll keep trying. Starting now. Go. (For real this time.)
After a little more coffee.
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