Last weekend we found ourselves in the company of two other couples for dinner. It was a spontaneous thing and it was a lot of fun. During this dinner, the conversation turned to the upcoming film adaptation of "The Great Gatsby." I'm sure I squealed (yeah, I'm a squealer) "Oooohhh I really want to see that!" The others were already making plans to see it opening night.
"You should come!" squealed Laura. (There's a reason we are friends.)
"Yes! Can we?" I asked Kevin.
"Have you read anything about it? You should because I don't think you are going to like it," he said.
"No, but I've seen the trailer and it looks dazzling. I want to be dazzled," I said, sounding like the feather head I become in mixed company after two healthy pours of Chianti.
The conversation turns to other versions of the movie, but it's clear the three of us women really want to see the new film. One of the other husbands, Steve, wants to see it as well, and I think that might bring some masculine credibility to the venture. I quickly forget why Kevin thinks I will not like the movie and I'm caught up in thoughts of how fun it will be to see a movie with other couples. Any movie. (Excepting porn.)
As I've mentioned before, I love it when men make social plans. So I thought it was cute when our friend Steve asked me the following day if Kevin and I were in for the movie Friday. He and his wife were going to select a time and theater and get advanced tickets. I asked Kevin if we were indeed in.
"I don't know. Let's wait and see if Chip gets back to me about a meeting Friday," he says.
"You're stalling. You don't want to see the movie, do you?" I accuse.
He denies this and I drop it.
Steve emails me the following day, asking if we are in. I explain the delayed response, perhaps maybe whining just a wee bit.
"Do I need to send him a 'what kind of hubby are you email?' Steve volunteers.
"And how would that email go?" I ask, knowing such an email would not go over well at all.
"Just a nudge about doing something just because your best girl likes it. And a reminder that chivalry and generosity gets returned ten-fold," he writes.
I decline his offer. Just the other night Kevin rescued a dying, half-paralyzed wild rabbit, setting it up in a cozy box in our garage with some spinach leaves. He then drove it to the animal hospital the next morning so they could humanely end its life. Kevin needs no reminders of chivalry. Ever.
Another day passes and Kevin calls me at work to check in. He says an odd thing.
"There wasn't much in the mail for you today. Your "New Yorker" came. Wait'll you see it."
"Oh, that's right, they've got a piece about 'Gatsby'. It's on the cover too, right?"
"No, not the cover. There's a 'Gatsby' review. You're going to want to read it before you consider going to see it."
"Why? Is it scathing?"
"I don't care. I want to see it. You don't have to come along." I snap like a petulant 12-year-old.
This morning Kevin gets up before me and makes me buckwheat pancakes and coffee, and I am reminded again how he would never need a nudge about generosity and chivalry. My heart swells with love. We sit down to eat and he says: "Did you read that review in the New Yorker last night?"
"No. I was reading about Syria," I say defensively.
"We're not going to Syria Friday," he shoots back.
"You're not going to read it are you? I know how this goes," he says with more than a little contempt.
"And you are going to hate this movie no matter what," I shoot back. "You are going to base your opinions on this one review? You don't even like the New Yorker!"
"No, I base them on what I've seen in the trailer too. I don't think I will like it and I don't think you will either. The reviewer got motion sickness from the camera work. Beware," he says.
He asks questions about the logistics of going to the movie as if it were an entire weekend getaway.
"Did Laura's email mean we are to buy our own tickets or were they buying them? What time is the show? When do we need to be there to get a seat together? It's not that theater way out there in Naperville is it?" he continues.
We are now snipping at each other and I'm incredulous. Why is this outing turning into a pain point?
As I head out the door for work he comments on my outfit. He does this a lot and creatively.
"Lori's all in black and white today. Yin and Yang. The duality of man," he says.
"Yes. That's me. I'm a duality," I say.
Kevin is very likely right. All signs do point to me hating the "Great Gatsby". Questionable camera work, an incongruous soundtrack, a filmmaker whose previous work "Moulin Rouge!" I loathed— all adds up to a fat thumbs down. He knows me well.
Once at the office, I check the email trail regarding the movie and I buy our tickets online, happily responding that the B.'s have purchased their tickets. I'm weirdly excited that we're "in." It is then that it dawns on me: I want to see this movie, on this night, with these people because I don't want to be left out. I need to be part of a mini society of happily married couples. What I overlooked is how strong-arming my husband makes me a lesser member of that society.
There's a solid chance Kevin and I will be leaving the theater tomorrow night disappointed in the movie and wishing we could have those four hours of our lives back. If that happens, I know I will have to apologize. But I know Kevin will not say "I told you so."
I guess that would make us a happy couple after all.