Movie Night

 Channeling Wonder Woman vibes as I go on my quest to secure my movie seat without causing a tremendous ruckus of annoyed couples and spilled potato chips. 

***

I sneak into the theater late. I trust the glow of the screen to illuminate the way to my seat. A flash of light from a commercial advertising the next Planet of the Apes spotlights my pre-selected, reserved seat. Of course, it waits nestled on the far end of a crowded aisle. Those promptly arrived movie goers have already made themselves at home. Friends and couples recline in their comfy seats, sharing appetizers, eating bowls of simmering mac n’ cheese, drinking beer.

I will be loathed by the entirety of the theater if I make this row stand so I can stumble and apologize my way to my seat. And! This disruption of a lone girl tripping toward her single seat will notify the entire theater that I am in fact seeing this movie, on a Friday night, a date night, on MY OWN. I fear looking pathetic, and predict any feelings of potential pity would be eclipsed if in the commotion there’s an accidental spilling of cheese dip.  

This is an insecurity I inherited from society. I pay it quick attention. I let the future movie financed by fear project its scenes. This is a short film I’ve seen before – this fear of being judged for being introverted, for being alone, for being me.

The truth is this: I like, actually sometimes truly prefer, doing things on my own.

I like, well, let’s be honest…I LOVE seeing movies on my own, especially if I’ve seen them before.

This evening, I knew my self-care included seeing Wonder Woman, again. I wanted to be in my own company and be completely swept up by this epic. Since I know the story, I can notice the nuances in the script and pieces in the plot that I perhaps at first missed, and I also know when to close my eyes.

Violence on screen unnerves me, any pain from the onscreen characters reverberates through me. This is the same sensitivity leading me to see this movie. There’s a heightened sensitivity to feeling and answering the needs emanating from my being. My inner self resonates with Wonder Woman, wants to be immersed in the world of a great film centered on love, and the power of love to heal the world.

This inner request for a solo movie date could have been easily ignored. In the past, that loving voice making a lighthearted suggestion might have been silenced by the fear of what others would think and possibly say.

And really, who are these others? Like those other mac n’ cheese eaters are concerned and captivated by what the puffy-blonde gal is up to coming to the theater, GASP, on her own? 

If people do judge, then it’s their issue, and sweet relief, it ain’t my stuff if they have an issue.

But here’s the truth...I have issue about being here solo.

I harbor self-judgment about going to the film on my own. I feel a charged reaction. When there’s a charge, a disruption to inner peace, there’s an invitation to be still, listen in, and cleanse any mistruths accidentally absorbed and ruling as an unchallenged belief.

The bigger question is difficult to face. This is the wounded part of me who bought the misbelief that me being me is weird, unacceptable and worthy of judging.

Yuck. I just wrote that sentence. Worthy of being judged? No one is worthy of being judged. I don’t think that about anyone, so why would I cling to that belief about me? This critic is not invited to accompany me to the movie, or anywhere else in life.

I know I adopted this narrative in childhood, and it’s been spinning ever since. Now, there’s an awareness behind it, and when there’s awareness, there’s an automatic shift, because I recognize that thought is not me, and therefore, it holds no true power in shaping my reality.

Me being me is going to a movie on my own because I relish in the gorgeous luxury of feeling all the feels from the film. I enjoy my own company, my own created adventures.

And that’s fucking awesome.

Like the adventure to get to my seat.

I practice my Wonder Woman inspired moves to sprint across the No Man’s Land in between the seats stationed in front of the screen and the ascending rows.

I stop right in front of my seat and take note. There’s a counter bar that runs the length of the aisle, acting as a makeshift table for those simmering mac n’ cheese platters and frosty beers. The open space beneath is suddenly the tunnel that will deliver me to my seat.

Purse and jacket gathered close, sunglasses drooping off my head, I duck, and pop my head out for a friendly hello to my neighbors before proudly flinging myself into the welcoming arms of that cushiony chair.

I made it. Round of inner applause for showing up, for taking myself out on a date, because I fulfilled a wish, made movie-magic happen.  

I’m alone on Friday night. I’m seeing Wonder Woman for the second time. And after this, I’m getting a vanilla milkshake. I lean back in triumph and relax into enjoying a Friday night movie with just me, and it’s gorgeously enough and epically sweet.

Road Trip

Spirited West.  
Photo by Road Warrior, Ann Sydney Taylor.  

***

A road trip sparks my spirit awake.

I recognize the cure is the open road as soon I turn onto the two-lane highway, right as the first current of wind sweeps through the car, and the sun rays beam through the window shield, through the rolled down windows, warming my forearms, my face, bleaching my hair blonder (I’ll be sunburned later – a combination of the seven-hour drive and walking the streets of downtown Marfa in the afternoon West Texas sun, and then the burn will tan into a sun-kiss).

The open road is a grand hostess for my 27^th birthday.

I must confess, I am fabulously surprised by her capability to throw a stellar party. She lets me pick the playlist, graciously lets me sing out loud, and I confuse the lyrics, and I make up words, and I play the same LP song on a delirious loop for a solid forty-minutes, but it’s my birthday, it’s my road trip, and these are the facts she reminds me of whenever I feel like I’m being too self-indulgent.

There is dancing, too. Of course there is dancing. I sway within the confines of my seatbelt, drum my fingers into the streams of wind, even do a little shimmy, and the mountains blush. Or maybe they are just sun-kissed, like me.

There’s an iced vanilla latte (double shot, because it’s my birthday and I want to be wired awake for all the festivities), and a cold brew (“This is my crack,” the barista who believes in ghosts told me as he gifted me a full cup) riding shotgun, and they may be responsible for a few shimmies, and spontaneous sing-alongs.

There is the friend driving ahead of me, pointing and directing the way, so I can relax into the drive and know that if I get lost, I have her. She’s a text, a call, a frantic hand wave away. I smile as I see her hand float into the hot air, surfing the breeze, in rhythm to her playlist, in tune with the tempo of road and desire to arrive at Marfa while there’s still sunlight to explore.

I explore the contents of my mind here, too. This is a gift presented by the plains. Thoughts freed to roam and meander away along the far reaches of field, of distant plains. The mental chit-chat fades, and the wind is louder now.

The wind gifts me clarity. Fresh air courses and polishes the core of the narratives that need to speak. The lessons glisten, ready to be seen, acknowledged, heard. I can listen now, because the open road invigorates my courage, and LP's sheer, raw voice  shakes that piece of my soul yearning to be wild in knowing and untamed in feeling.

Through song, through road, through their intermingling rhythms, I rediscover a chord of strength that has always been mine, one that has ensured that I made it to this day, to this drive. There’s intrinsic grit, this ancestral determination that will always purposefully move me forward. And I move forward by listening, finally.

There’s an understanding for the past, a liberated love for the present, and emboldened confidence for the future. This drive defeats insecurities and proves my growing capability to dare and go and do, and this feeling of being capable I deeply embrace.

I’ve felt desperately inadequate for most of my life. But now, at 27, I can stand in the wounding, observe the damage without bitterness or anger, and forgive the people who taught me and told me otherwise. I’m driving away from them, and into the blaze of the new year. I am liberated to love and celebrate the imperfect completeness that is me. 

And I am free to feel unapologetic joy. This is my gift to myself. I let myself receive joy and experience the thrill of driving down this rush of inspiring road that is changing me with each passing scene, each racing mile. 

All the struggles still exist. The trauma will need to be unpacked. This waits for me back in Austin, and that's what makes this drive tender and raw and sweet. I dive into the delicious truth that joy can still be accessed in the midst of confusion, fear, reeling transition. 

This drive and all its golden-hued epiphanies become the compass directing my new spin around the sun. This is the memory that revives and sustains the feeling, steering me closer to the daring turns of passions, places, people who resonate like that open road, feel like the ecstatic joy of spontaneously singing, wonderfully and freely off-pitch, into the far west.