Someone I know who had seen “Finding Neverland” had told me that one would shed a tear at the end. Just one, single, solitary tear.
So, alas, I traipsed to a matinee of said epic, only to start bawling three-quarters of the way through it and to continue sobbing uncontrollably from that moment (when the orphans took their seats at the theater) through the credits. When the lights came on, I looked like Michael Jordan had beaned me in the head with about four basketballs. Sheesh. Superb film, I say.
I’d gone to the theater, undecided about seeing that one or “Hitch,” because let’s face it, I can use a laugh. But the latter was showing on two screens and sold out three shows in advance, so I was glad to have had the choice made for me. And, as always, I was an hour early for the show, so I settled with an overpriced drink into what I think is the best seat in the house — in the center of the theater, with the railing in front of me.
Anyway, I was hoping to not have to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with the unwashed masses, but alas, fate was not on my side in that respect. Remember, I am very claustrophobic, and unless my seatmate is a hot, straight man with a cologne that makes me need an underwear change, well, I ain’t happy. I tried to at least save a seat with my coat but I must have those vibes of “She isn’t saving that seat for anyone,” and I got screwed. To my right was an older woman who took off her shoes immediately and smelled like a GIANT FOOT, replete with fungus. She also had popcorn, which really turned my stomach when coupled with the stench from her stockinged feet that she parked on the rail in front of us. Ugh.
Surprisingly, my inner bitch was off to Tahiti (or, in this case, Neverland) for the day — I’ve been rather pleasant of late and I’m not quite sure why — but the inner bitch of the gal to my left was enough to power the entire theater. I had moved my coat to the seat between us, but when the lights went down and the previews kicked on, a couple asked her and her friend if they could shift down one seat so that they could sit together, as there was another empty seat beside her friend.
The gal next to me hissed, “Well, that’s why the rest of us come EARLY so we can get seats TOGETHER!!!”
The woman was stunned, but the gals next to me did shift down (and the one directly next to me was sighing heavily toward my drink on our shared armrest — I ended up holding it throughout the movie so she wouldn’t snarf in it). The woman thanked the women not only twice then, but also when the lights went up. You could just feel the ire in the air. And I felt weightless, like it was so nice to be freed from wishing ill on people (I have others I wish it on — I suppose I was conserving energy! Must. Control. Urge. To. Link. …).
Anyway, I found it unfortunate that every woman in my row stayed seated through the credits. I was sobbing and couldn’t breathe in general from the claustrophobia — all I wanted was air and/or some ridiculously hot man to hug me at that moment. 
But alas, I got neither.
As I emerged from the theater, Foot Fungus was bitching to a member of the cleanup crew. Her inner bitch was upset about the volume and about something else. I wanted to push her out of the way and say that the volume was fine but it was the stench of death coming from her over-worn black shoes that was more effective than Chloroform.
In any event, I do have to agree somewhat with the gal who snapped about arriving early to get a good seat. I agree. I get there early so I can have my pick of the place, and it kills me when the Johnny-Come-Latelys with colds and stinky feet and bad auras park their asses next to me and ruin my experience. Next time, I think I will just wait for the DVD to come out!
On iTunes: SWV, “All Night Long”
