One, please

Several weeks ago I had the sudden urge to go to the theater alone.

Oh, the thought had crossed my mind plenty in the past – mostly because of some charming scene in an old movie, set in New York or Paris where people do that sort of thing. Wishing I were worldly enough to be that lone person on the screen happily watching a screen, wishing I were somewhere else.

But maybe it isn’t about geographical location so much as the way our theaters are now made – the bright tackiness of the animated concession signs and the electronic scrolling marquees. I don’t think there’s anything romantic about them at all, which is odd considering how often they’re used for the specific purpose of dating. And it seems nearly everything has a stigma attached to it and here, now, going to the movies alone makes you either weird or a loser.

There’s still a part of me that wants to seem glamorous and mysterious, like the characters in those old films, but this new feeling wasn’t at all like those occasional fantasies. I wasn’t thinking in black and white, about the décor or the pillbox hat and the gloves I’d wear when I’d ask the man behind the counter for a single ticket. In fact, at the time, I couldn’t say exactly what I was thinking. I just knew I needed to go, and I needed to go alone.

My first attempt fell flat when I made a pre-movie lunch visit and ended up with a tag-along. Specifically my godmother’s nephew, whom I happen to think is wonderful but who wanted to see a comedy I could’ve done without...at least until the video release.

Walking alongside him toward the theater’s giant cave-like entrance, I couldn’t decide if I was more relieved or disappointed. Relieved because, obviously, I wouldn’t have to walk past the handholding couples with a tub of popcorn, avoiding eye contact lest one of them notice a single in their midst. Disappointed because, had he not wanted to go, I was sure I would’ve done it. I would have gone alone.

By the following Friday I was so fed up with work and everything else that I left several hours early, intending to drive home and rest before going out to dinner. But before I’d gotten very far I changed my mind. Checking movie times, I noticed I would just make one of the “to see” items on my list if I went straight there.

Once the decision was made and I knew I wasn’t going to make any stops that might deter me, I became a little nervous. What if I ran into an ex on a date or worse, my boss? Would it be really sad to get my own popcorn? I’d always shared before. What if the theater was full and I had to sit wedged between two couples? Who really cares about going to the movies alone anyway?

Still, I parked and strode with defiant, false bravado to the outdoor counter. Though who this defiance was intended for wasn't entirely clear: myself, the general public or perhaps a little of both.

Two teenage girls left the window with stubs in hand and I stepped up. “One for the 4:20 showing of The Help, please”, I told the sulking young guy on the other side.

“Enjoy the show”, he replied on cue, handing me the ticket.

Even with fake steel holding up my spine, I decided to draw as little attention to myself as possible and avoid the concession stand. I’d be heading for dinner soon enough anyway. Somehow eating alone in a theater seemed worse than just sitting alone in one – logic I still haven’t quite figured out.

But halfway there I was stopped by an elderly man tearing ticket stubs in half and having far too much fun with what appeared to be a grocery store scanner. I suppose it was meant for paper tickets ordered online, but he was using it to scan women instead.

He was making a rather big to-do over two middle aged ladies in front of me, holding each of their hands in turn and scanning their forearms while proclaiming loudly that they were in perfect health. As they walked away laughing, I worried that he’d do the same to me. I didn’t want him holding me up, making me stand out in the open longer than necessary. I also worried that he wouldn’t. I didn’t want him to treat me differently because I was alone.

“Hello! Welcome!”

I smiled and handed him my stub, glancing at his name tag.

“Jim” must have been in his late 60’s and suddenly, rather than worrying about what he thought of me or what the other people scattered around saw when they looked my way, I wondered how a man like him ended up in this place full of sullen teenagers and couples. What made him come back to work at his age? Money? Boredom? Loneliness? Did he go to the movies alone too?

“How’s your day going”, he asked, handing me back the torn copy and reaching for my free hand.

I gave him a real smile this time. “It’s going great. How’s yours?”

“Fantastic!” He swept the red light over my forearm, taking his time and muttering comically to himself. “You’re absolutely perfect”, he finally declared, his voice echoing across the lobby.

“No high blood pressure? Heart problems?” He was delighted that I’d teased him back.

“Not a bit! But holding such a beautiful woman’s arm, I can’t say the same for myself!” He grabbed his chest and rolled his eyes heavenward. I found myself laughing and hoping that he had a woman every bit as exuberant at home, waiting for him to put his vest and name tag aside and tell her about the people he’d seen, the smiles he’d encouraged.

As I turned to go I noticed that we were being watched by a few dubious looking teenage concession employees. I gave them a wave, said goodbye to Jim and headed toward theater four. Almost there, I heard Jim shout, “Enjoy it, honey!”

I spun in a circle, shot him two thumbs way up in the air, and disappeared through the black entrance with the sound of his laughter in my ears. I wasn’t sure if he was extremely perceptive or simply very friendly, but the tension and self consciousness had abated remarkably with those few moments of interaction.

I was smiling as I made my way down the slightly inclined hallway, the wall of the theater lowering on my right. But when I cut the corner and encountered the stairs leading up, I saw what I’d forgotten was a possibility: a full house. I stood there for a moment, unsure whether I should take a seat I hated down in front and crane my neck or brave the packed and coveted upper deck, squeezing past people and muttering apologies.

I started climbing before I could talk myself out of it, up and up, until I reached my favorite row, second to last. An older couple sat on the end and I excused myself, side-stepping past their knees and into the mostly empty center. I sat down, relieved, and placed my purse in the seat to my right.

I’d arrived just in time for the previews and as the lights went down, aside from the one occupied by my purse, the few remaining seats in my row began to fill – couples on either side. I was hyper aware of the woman sitting to my left, worrying whether it was proper etiquette to leave the shared armrest bare or if it belonged to me because I’d gotten there first. I decided to place my hands in my lap, just in case.

And then I forget them all and lost myself in the screen – laughing, frowning, holding back tears. I forgot to wonder if the row behind me noticed that I’d sat down alone or if the woman who’d offered me a free popcorn voucher did so out of pity. I forgot to wonder if the couples on either side were wondering or whispering about me.

I’ve always watched movies with an intensity that sometimes annoys the people around me. I attempt to shut out everything and become completely transported. The same goes for reading. And if something or someone disrupts that, though I may not always show it, I get agitated. The exception to the rule usually takes place out of the theater, if I’ve seen a movie before and the person I’m watching it with hasn’t. Then the majority of my attention switches to them – studying their reactions and comparing them to my own, hoping they laugh and frown at the same parts, that they like it as much as I did.

But I was alone – there was no one to nudge me or stage whisper exclamations during the dramatic parts. I owed none of these strangers my attention and I didn’t care whether they enjoyed the movie or not. There was no one to please but myself. And when the lights came up and the end credits rolled I felt satisfied, relaxed.

I ambled down the stairs in the thick of the crowd, my mind still partially back in 1960’s Mississippi. Back up the dark hallway, out into the lobby, I moved with them at a pace entirely different than the one I’d had going in.

As I passed the ropes separating those coming and going, I saw Jim waving from his post. I waved back, even though I wasn’t completely sure it was me he was waving to, and moved out the row of glass doors into the hot evening.

I had just enough time to make it to the restaurant where, when asked what I’d been doing with my afternoon, I told my companion I’d taken a solo trip to the movies.

“Wow”, she said, looking at me with a mixture of awe and confusion. She was impressed because she could never have done such a thing, but at the same time she didn’t know why I’d felt the need to do it in the first place.

I could’ve told her that it was about making myself happy and not relying on someone else to do it for me, or that I just “wanted to”. I could’ve told her that it was about conquering a fear, defying a stigma, or half a dozen other things that had crossed my mind since I’d exited those doors. I could’ve laid all my thoughts out about why and how, about what it all might mean.

But I simply smiled and shrugged. Because that’s the beauty of being alone – I don’t really have to explain myself to anyone.

Traveling light

Last night I unlocked the door and walked into an empty house. I placed my bags on the table and stood there, hearing nothing but the quiet rush of cold air. No one careened into my legs demanding attention. There was no shouting, no banging of pots and pans, no blaring TV.

For all my To Do lists, when faced with the reality of being truly on my own, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I wandered around for a few minutes like a ghost, disoriented, knowing there was a light somewhere meant for me disappear into, yet unable to find it.

I finally decided I was being ridiculous so I slipped on my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and shuffled out the door.

And shuffle I did. Since Sunday my pace has slowed considerably. With no deadlines, demands, or people to satisfy, there’s been no need to constantly check a clock or step harder on the gas pedal.

It was overcast and humid, the grass still wet from recent rains. It’s my favorite time of day to go swimming – right before dark when everyone else is inside eating dinner and the lake is smooth and quiet.

Diving into the water and swimming just beneath the surface is one of the best feelings in the world. It envelopes you, feels like silk rippling over your skin every time you move a limb. I lay on my back underneath it and waved my arms lazily to stay down, looking up at the play of shadow and light.

I came up for air and struck out toward a neighboring dock, intent on swimming laps. But after only a few passes there was a buzzing around my head. I squealed and dunked under the water, swam a few yards, and resurfaced. A horsefly was determined to make my head his resting place and he chased me all over the cove before I finally conceded defeat and got out.

Back at home I took a long, hot shower and did something I never get to do: walk around in a towel. It seems so simple, but it’s a luxury I don’t get often. I was riffling through my dresser, looking for a t-shirt, when my hand found something unexpected – a short, blue silk nightgown with thin straps and a plunging neckline. I’d never worn it before – partially because of where it came from, and partially because it would just be silly to walk around a crowded house in such a thing.

I wrapped my wet hair in a towel and slipped the nightgown over my head. I reached back into my dresser and pulled out the sheer, matching robe. Shrugging it on and standing in front of the mirror, I felt just a tad silly. Maybe other people walk around their homes in silk and satin, but I’ve always been a cotton t-shirt kind of girl. I kept it on anyway. When would I ever get the chance to wear it again?

I could go on to tell you about how I ate a helping of chicken salad and watched the last half of Dirty Dancing. Or how I sat on the dark porch and smoked a cigarette, feeling every bit the old fashioned diva in my silk. Or about when the cat ran out the door and I had to chase after him in the dark, feeling not so much like a diva and more like a lunatic. Regale you with all my solo activities - exciting or otherwise.

Instead I’ll tell you this:

Being alone for an extended period of time is not exactly what I expected. I thought I remembered what it was like when I lived by myself, but I’d forgotten a few things.

Like the fear of walking past an uncovered window, seeing nothing but your reflection surrounded by black, and wondering if something or someone is looking back. Or the way that so much quiet time can make you think about things that you wouldn’t normally have the time or energy to think about. Or that feeling of isolation and disconnect – like you’re the only person in a 100 mile radius (except, of course, for the thing that may or may not be staring in your darkened window).

Last night I stared into space and listened to the fan whir overhead. I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts strayed from one thing to another – my day and the parts I enjoyed, the fear of the unlikely lurker outside my locked doors and bolted windows, how hard my family would laugh if they could have seen me decked out in my fancy night attire. I tossed and I turned, though I was physically more than comfortable.

Finally I picked up my cell phone and went to my messages. In the inbox were two videos my mother sent me earlier that day. In them my daughter is standing by a pool in her bathing suit, hands on her hips, demanding that everyone “watch this!”. She turns and shoots a grin over her shoulder before jumping into the pool, going underwater, and popping back up triumphantly, then running back up the stairs to do it again. I’ve been trying to get her to jump off the dock and stick her face in the water forever, and she never would.

I felt a mixture of things – pride for her little accomplishment, disappointment at not being there to witness it first hand, jealousy that my mom was getting to experience her first beach trip and I wasn’t. But mostly I just felt better. Because as much as I’ve enjoyed (and will continue to enjoy) my quiet time this week, the truth is I’m not actually alone. I won’t ever be again. And who really wants to be anyway?

I relaxed back into the pillows, closed my eyes, and fell asleep knowing I wasn’t so ridiculous after all. I found my light right where I’d left it –