(Disclaimer: Do not let his menacing appearance fool you. He will not protect you from the aliens.)
It is safe to say that I have always had an extensive imagination. Good: When writing papers in third grade. Bad: When allowed to run full throttle into territory no imagination should ever go.
I am easily frightened. By many things. Germs. Serial killers. Sharks. Other peoples' boogers. Spiders. Public bathrooms. Flying. Running out of coffee. The Apocalypse. Playdates at my house with that little red-headed girl from down the street. Having spinach in my teeth and running into Anderson Cooper at the grocery store and then missing my chance to have my way with him. (Jeff would approve this dalliance because Anderson is on The List.) And, if there is one thing I do know about Anderson, it is that he would NEVER tolerate spinach teeth.
For all of these reasons, I avoid scary movies. No need to feed the beasts that are my neuroses. I know I will be unable to erase the scary movie images from my mind and will think about scenes from that movie for weeks and weeks and weeks. This will be a problem when it is eventually time to sleep. Nobody I have ever shared a bed with - and that includes Felix, my fatty-fatty-bo-batty black cat - has enjoyed sleeping with all the lights on.
Nor did they enjoy being woken up every five minutes to make sure the door is locked. Or getting out of a warm bed to make sure that aliens have not landed in the kitchen where they now lie in wait in the pantry. (It is a commonly accepted fact among the scientific community that aliens like cookies.) Nor did they enjoy the pre-bathroom check of lifting up the lid of the toilet seat to expose any hidden snakes, rats, sharks, serial killers, ghosts and, of course, aliens; those that were not smart enough to enjoy the Oreos while waiting to launch their stealth attack from the pantry.
My brother was in town a few weeks ago and he just told me about the movie Paranormal Activity and I had nightmares for a week. He did not anticipate how very freaked out I would be just from hearing about the plot, but when I was, the little brother torment wheels started turning. For the rest of the night, every time I would leave the room, my brother would turn off the lights and make weird demon noises as he hid behind the couch, anticipating the moment he could jump out and grab me when I returned to fumble with the light switch in the pitch blackness. This "fun" game worked every single time, much to his diabolical delight. One dozen high-pitched girl screams later, he continued to find it slap-his-thigh, hold-his-sides funny.
Anyone who thinks this behavior sounds odds clearly has never had a little brother of their own. By "little brother", I am referring to a person who is now twenty-eight-years-old, but who refuses to let the demands of adulthood and maturity dampen the fun of the time-honored tradition of Annoying The Big Sister. Some tricks never quite get old.
Back to my main point ... this weekend posed a momentary lapse in judgement on my part. Jeff and I attempted to watch a movie. We could find nothing worthwhile On Demand, so perused the movie channels. Jeff pushed for Scream, citing, "You picked the place for dinner, I get the movie. C'mon, it is not that scary."
I reminded him about my scared-of-my-own-shadow nature. Remember, I said, you are talking to the very same person who cannot SWIM IN A POOL ALONE BECAUSE SHE IS AFRAID A SHARK WILL APPEAR OUT OF A VENT AND EAT HER (except if I am standing on one of the dark lines, because then the sharks cannot see me and I will be safe). I cannot be sure, but I suspect this shark-pool neuroses has something to do with something that my little brother did to freak me out while growing up, probably involving some sort of actual dead shark part, but that I have since blocked out at the advice of my therapist.
Before the movie began, I re-reviewed with Jeff all of my scary movie watching rules:
1) Do not fall asleep during the movie because then you cannot protect me when the killer/shark/ghost/alien tries to jump out of the movie screen and run off with me/bite one of my legs/possess me/impregnate me against my will with alien babies.
2) I need bodyguard support at all times during the movie. This includes, but is not limited to, a chaperone to the kitchen, while heading upstairs for a sweater, or if I need to visit the bathroom. ** Regarding the bathroom, Jeff does not actually have to come in, but must wait outside where I can see toes through the crack of the door. And if I say, "Are you out there!???!", he must respond affirmatively within a second-and-a-half.
3) After the movie, we will sleep with all the lights on. That night and maybe, until 2012.
Apparently, Jeff really, really wanted to see Courtney Cox (circa 1996) in a miniskirt because he agreed to all my terms. I made sure he understood all forty-seven pages of the contract, including the footnotes, before movie-viewing commenced.
Ten minutes into the movie, Jeff started snoring. I woke him up and reminded him that he was violating rule #1 and if he could not comply with his manly task of wife protection, I would turn this scary stuff off and we would watch The Princess Diaries. Thirty minutes into the movie, he refused to go upstairs with me and wait outside the door while I peed. I told him he was being mean and insensitive and as punishment, while I was up there, I was going to use his face razor to shave my legs. Forty minutes into the movie, he fell asleep again, thereby endangering my life during a critical part of the action (bathroom scene, Neve Campbell. This scene in the movie gives credence to my completely normal, rational fear of public restrooms.) One hour in, Jeff decides to recklessly leave me alone in the basement while he heads upstairs for a snack.
Recognizing that I would need to take my personal safety into my own hands, I paused the movie and hid under the blanket, thereby ensuring that none of my tender parts were dangling off the sofa. If parts do not dangle, then they are safe from all the sharks/ghosts/demons/killers/aliens that surely lurk under the couch.
I waited and waited and waited. I heard clunking about noises upstairs, then more clunking about. As any normal person would infer from these noises, I became increasingly certain that Jeff was not coming back. Obviously, these sounds indicated that Jeff had fallen prey to the pantry aliens, who were snacking on his liver after enjoying their amuse bouche of Oreos and Chips Ahoys. At this point, I knew my only hope of survival would be to tuck myself even deeper under the blanket. Once the aliens had their fill of cookies and Jeff, I might be spared -- thanks, honey, for being so selfless! -- and perhaps they would leave for their spaceship before I was discovered under my blanket shield.
Fifteen minutes later, my anxiety of being alone and unguarded in the basement had reached a fever pitch when Jeff returned. Miraculously - he was uneaten! - and I rejoiced! Until he announced that he had just finished the chocolate-chip cookie-dough ice cream and, "Ooops! Sorry! Should have checked if you wanted some first!"
And that, my friends, is how Scary Movie Night almost resulted in my divorce. I would have had grounds.
