Yesterday we went to see the movie, Inception, which was really good. I talked my husband into going. He’s not a big fan of movies because they cost so much. “I’ll see it when it comes out on video.”
But I told him how good this movie was supposed to be and he consented to go. We got in the lobby and he wanted some popcorn. “Just get a small one,” I said.
“Why, it’s only a dollar more to get the medium.”
“Because the medium is huge, and I’ll eat the whole thing.”
“I’m starving,” he said. “I’ll eat most of it.”
I know this isn’t true because he only likes the top and middle layers that are dripping with that fake movie butter. He’s not going to eat any more than that, and then I know I’ll eat all the rest because I have zero willpower when it comes to popcorn.
“Look, just get the small. It’s plenty of popcorn,” I whined, but he ordered a medium because it was a better deal.
“Lots of extra butter, too,’ he told the clerk, “and a medium diet Coke.”
The concession stand girl gets a bag the size of a grocery sack and starts shoveling in popcorn. Five minutes later she’s got it about half full and she starts pumping the butter on it. Pump, pump, pump, pump…these dots stand for about 30 more pumps. Then she starts shoveling in more popcorn. She’s staggering under the weight of the bag as she pumps more butter over the top.
She hoists the bag up onto the counter and starts filling a cup with at least two gallons of diet Coke. She has to lift it with two hands.
“That’ll be $13.50,” she says.
My husband pays, complaining the whole time. “Seven bucks for a bag of popcorn.”
“You could have gotten the small bag,” I said.
“Yeah, and just saved a buck. It’s a better deal with this one.”
As we walked to theater number 6 – on our right, I’m worried that the popcorn bag isn’t greaseproof and a waterfall of butter is going to flow out the bottom.
We found decent seats and my husband starts in on the popcorn. I am not joking, he plunges his big fist into the top and crams the greasy kernels in his mouth and dives in a second, third, fourth and fifth time. He’s after the butter, and he’s not going to offer me any of that popcorn until he gets the lion’s share of it. Then he hands me the bag.
I grab a mouthful and it’s as dry as Death Valley. It doesn’t taste good but I keep eating because popcorn and potato chips are the two things I can’t stop eating until the whole bag is gone.
I munched my way through that bag until I struck oil – the second layer of butter. I tried to be nonchalant so I’d get to enjoy some of that delicious grease but my husband caught on quick. My slick fingers kept reflecting off the movie like they had a flashlight shining on them. He again snatched the bag away, gobbled up the butter, and then handed the bag back to me when the well ran dry.
Just like I knew I would, I continued to eat that popcorn even when the button flew off my shorts and hit a bald man in the back of the head. Even when the zipper unzipped itself. Even when the muscles in my arm were getting sore from the repetition. I finally put the bag down, but only because I just couldn’t lift my arm again to grab another handful.
Of course I was thirsty after eating all that, so I drank practically all of the pop. Diet Coke makes me need to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW. The movie was so complex and captivating, though, that I didn’t want to get up. I sat in misery all the way through it, and when I got up I knocked down and trampled several people to get to the bathroom.
All in all, it was a great evening except for my discomfort. I highly recommend the movie, but do yourself a favor and get the small bag – or else make sure you bring a safety pin to close up that zipper.