Last night I went to see a movie, and yes, I went alone. I pulled a big sweater and scarf over the clothes I had been wearing since Wednesday night - a pair of gray velour “warm up” pants that a came with a set I bought last winter at Steinmart, and The Red Sweater. Then I drove myself in the misty rain to see Up In The Air. I’m still wearing the same clothes, but don’t worry. I have changed my panties. Even post menopausal women have feminine hygiene issues and I refuse to be one of those old women who smells like a nursing home.
The movie, starring George Clooney, was about a man who makes his living as a hatchet man for companies all over the country. He fires people for others who didn’t have the balls to do it themselves. He makes money on the side as a motivational speaker who counsels people to divest themselves of things and commitments. The only goal he articulates in the the whole movie is that he wants to log 10 million air miles so he will be treated like royalty in airports. He live on planes and in hotels and he meets a woman who becomes a friend with benefits, only he falls in love with her, I think. He falls in love with her as much as he can fall in love. She married and using him and in the end she calls him a parenthesis - a parenthesis.
Up In The Air is billed as a comedy, and there are a few tackily funny moments, but it is not a comedy. It is beautifully made and acted, and it had an impact on me or I wouldn't be writing this down. Clooney convinced me that such people exist, users who have no goals or moral compass. Oddly, the sadness I felt when I was driving home made me feel lucky. I have known great love, been enriched by it, spoiled by it, and yes, suffered and bled tears for its loss, but no one ever called me a parenthesis.