In the tidy narrative I’d like to tell,
The best part of my weekend
It seemed absurd that I needed to grit
What started as a substitute for socializing
The 7 p.m. screening
of “The Worst Person in the World”
at the cinema down the street
was pretty packed last night.
Couples on dates, groups of friends,
solo showgoers (like myself) who got there early to get good seats.
How many were seeing their first movie
outside the house in months, or years?
A week ago, Jackass Forever
was my first film back in theater seats,
since Uncut Gems, two years ago.
I think. Maybe.
I went to the movies because going to the movies
is, theoretically, enjoyable.
It’s one of the activities that, before the languishing set in,
was central to my idea of a life well lived.
I went because I was attempting
to practice behavioral activation,
the theory that your actions can influence your mood
when motivation and inspiration are in short supply.
Taking my feelings to the movies was, on balance, successful.
Being in an audience, emoting in concert,
even squeezing past the bitter-enders in my row who sat
all the way through the credits, felt good.
It was like a two-hour workout
for my weakened living-life muscles,
and thus with the hubris of a new pseudo weekend warrior
I resolved to hit a museum the next day.