Yesterday when I wrote about how great it was to go see Slumdog with my family, I told only part of the truth. Another part, equally true, is not so pretty.
As I mentioned, we drove to the theater together. My nephew dropped us off at the door and Mom, Dad, my brother-in-law, sister and I walked in together. Mom and Deb walked to the far corner to wait, as women often do while their men buy the tickets or pay the bill or whatever. I followed Dad and Jim to the ticket line.
In that moment, I felt bereft.
I had money in my pocket for the ticket. I buy my own ticket nearly every time I go to the movie and have for years. But for some reason, it felt horrible. No man to protect me. No man to take care of things. No man to stand in line while I waited with the women.
Dad turned and put his arm around me. "I'll get your ticket, Honey," he said.
Although I appreciated it, somehow, that almost felt worse—like charity for the old maid aunt. For a few minutes, I silently wallowed in sad and bad.
The first few minutes of the movie shook me out of that. Pretty quickly, I was ashamed of myself for being so childish and petty. Perspective is a beautiful thing, even when you find it among images of squalor.