My friend Oded invited me to a screening of The Age of Stupid last night, a part-SciFi, part-documentary film about the climate crisis. Running late, we could only find seats in the back of the theater and I teased him not to make any moves. Five minutes into the feature, my stomach sunk. It hadn't even occurred to me that this could be another feel-like-shit-about-being-an-American film and I reeeally wasn't in the mood for that. Ugggghhhh. I imagined sulking deeper and deeper into my seat as the next two hours passed by, until finally I'd land on the Raisinette-littered floor and let any foreigners spit on me on their way out.
Thankfully, Stupid doesn't focus on the United States as the only curse to climate change (though the facts speak for themselves). And although pretty much all climate change information sounds redundant to me at this point, writer and director, Franny Armstrong, calculates enough of a human-interest angle to temper any trace of science. I recommend it, especially to all my sustainability-speaking, green guru friends in Boulder (Nicole).
The screening was followed by a live press conference via satellite from New York, a cool acoustic performance by Radiohead's Thom Yorke, and an even cooler all-night happy hour with my friends at Tahona Tequila Bar. Jess is invited to a darrrrling little (non) "low budget," (non) "D.I.Y.," ranch-style destination wedding next weekend outside of Winter Park (which has, no surprise, erupted in last-minute chaos) so that became the topic of conversation.
The five of my friends and I stirred up our own set of opinions about "destination" weddings (namely, that they're disastrous) which triggered a now reoccurring dream later that night. In this horribly uncomfortable dream, I'm the bride about to be married and days away from walking down the aisle. As the situation comes into focus, I begin to panic at the thought of marrying that guy. "What was I thinking?" I ask myself every time. Then when I try to remember him actually proposing to me, I never can.
The dream lasts a few days, and all the while I'm looking at the people around me, trying to decide who I can desperately trust to help me. I'm feel frantic imagining marrying this guy and assured that we will end up divorced shortly down the road. When I decide on an accomplice, I tell them that I'll do anything to call off the wedding. In one version, the accomplice is my mom who gives me a tough-love talk moments before I walk down the aisle. She tells me, "You can't back out now and do this to such a wonderful man." In last night's version, Jess actually helps me off the hook and I'm able to leave the bewildered groom behind. (In a strange sidenote, his family is overwhelmingly understanding. Ha!)
So you're probably wondering who the guy is. Let me just say that it's been a different ex either time.
The groom is always one of the remarkably (...or, reasonably) eligible bachelor's I've dated and remain friends with, but haven't ended up with for one reason or another. Seriously, is this some sort of sick curse for calling myself a Romantic? For daydreaming about marrying the guy I'm dating? For doodling my third grade boyfriend's name all over the front of my Trapper Keeper? If I promise never to let my imagination get ahead of my relationship, will that be the end of this stupid, terrible dream?
I suppose it couldn't hurt. Shit, I may even learn a new thing or two about the realities of dating, end my own Age of Stupid. In honor of my personal War on Terra, I promise to keep my cynical feet on the ground ...momentarily.
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