I fought about something and then found out I was totally wrong yesterday.
Getting into it with my parents is not on my must-do list. I’d just rather not. They’re lovely enough people and I just come off like a spoiled brat. Which maybe I am. I mean, they are pretty generous.
Last night we were getting ready to see The Hobbit. My mother had made a fantastic dish of pasta fagioli, one of my favorites. She even served the soup in a breadbowl. How’s that for finesse? Pretty damned finesse-y if you’re asking a white dude named D.J.
It was 5:30pm and the show started at 6:05pm. The food wasn’t quite ready. I told them there was no way we were going to eat and be out the door in twenty minutes. My father started saying, “We can do it – it won’t be an issue.” I knew better, as someone who has a relatively decent sense of timing. There are things I’m not good at – any math beyond fractions, house cleaning, keeping women interested, not eating all the Life Savers I just bought yesterday. Lots of stuff I can’t do well. But I can see the future of being on time or late. And my crystal ball ain’t cloudy.
I dismissively told my dad he was plain wrong and that I knew what was up. As a normal person being told this sort of thing, he did not appreciate it. In fact he became more adamant we would make it on time. I continued my stance as I knew I was actually right in this instance. We weren’t going to make it on time.
Now, I know there are ten minutes of previews. I don’t need to see the trailer for the next Adam Sandler travesty. But this is the number one movie in America. It’s Friday night. It’s PG13. Kids are out of school for the holiday. It’s party time.
In my family we pass the popcorn back and forth and we need to sit together. Getting there five minutes after the previews started guaranteed that we would be ten feet from the screen staring upwards at Gandolf’s grey bush. I became vigilant that we needed to get their fifteen minutes early and to hit a later screening. This movie was going to be full of fourteen year old dudes who couldn’t get dates. Like me.
Well, my dad and I came to an impasse. He was exhausted arguing with me. He was plenty angry. He was turning to my mother and pointing at me like, “Look at what a shit you raised.” That part was kind of funny. I know it sounds sad, but I was sort of acting like a shit. Fair enough.
We made silent amends and decided the 6:15pm showing was doable. We raced to the theater and into the movie, popcorn in tow (plus the drinks we snuck in).
There was a group of four teenagers sitting near the back. That’s it.
The theater was totally empty.
I turned to my father after we sat down and said, “I could not have been more wrong about this.” I was, not joking, a little bit in shock. It’s like finding out you’re adopted at thirty-six. I don’t know what that’s actually like, but I suspect it’s a little jarring.
That simile was poor. Adoption and getting late to a movie with no people in it are not relate-able. Screw it! I’m making it relate-able You hear me God?!
I felt like a dick. I apologized. All is good again. But it is funny to be super wrong. I know what it’s like to have these moments, and the ability to say you’re sorry is one of the most powerful phrases I know. It not only accepts accountability for being a dick, it also sort-of says, “Hey, I was a dick – get over it.”
