One afternoon last week Noah closed every blind and shade in our house and forced me to watch The Others. For days beforehand I was afraid to get up and pee during the night in simple anticipation of watching it. Especially since I'd seen it before.
Shut up! Having already seen the movie—spoiler alert!—I knew for sure there were ghosts involved, which in my book counts as strike 1. Call strike 2 if the ghosts aren't friendly. I don't do scary movies.
My mom once convinced me that Hide & Seek was nothing more than a thriller. Seeing as it starred a young Dakota Fanning I convinced myself that her freakishly precocious dialogue in films would be the most frightening part, and I could brace for that anyway. Then—spoiler alert!—a crazed Bob DeNiro starts chasing a screaming Elisabeth Schue into a cave while wielding a bloody butcher knife. And my mom was all, "What?"
The very implication of horror—in films like Changeling and Frailty and Zodiac—is enough to give me nightmares. For multiple days, remedied only by a saturation of romantic comedies.
Tonight, Noah is forcing me to watch Shutter Island. He wanted to watch it last night, but at the last second I balked. I needed time to mentally prepare. Which really means I needed time to come up with some more excuses for putting it off. Considering my mom referred to it as a "thriller," who knows what the *&@!? I'm in for.
I might have to fall back on one of my less noble characteristics, Being a Big Weenie, to stave off the inevitable for another night. Don't think I won't.