I went to see Sex and the City on Friday with the rest of America. No news there.
But unlike most of my 30ish peers, who planned glamorous outings in an attempt to mirror the lifestyle of the movie's characters, my evening took on a rather different ambience.
What I'm saying is, I saw this uber-urban, glam-fest chick flick in Zephyrhills.
Being a contented resident of Dade City, I am totally up on the benefits of small-town life. But when you're trying to do a big-city thing in one such small town, those perks can be harder to spot.
So why Zephyrhills?
I worked late on Friday. That began the rush. My girlfriend agreed to meet me at my house in Dade City so we could jet down to the closest movie theater.
No shower. No changing into a slinky sequin dress and $400 heels (or in my closet, knockoffs). It was go as you are — conservative office garb.
We wanted to grab something to eat, and of course, a cosmo before the 9:30 show. Being the typical maniacal fan of the television series that ran for six years, I had read plenty of movie buzz while trying to avoid any spoilers. I knew that bars in Tampa were having fashionable kickoff parties with drink specials to cash in on the hype, but in Zephyrhills the options are limited.
We went to Chili's. And there was a wait.
Dinner felt slightly rushed, as we were worried about getting to the theater before tickets sold out.
I ordered my cosmopolitan — duh — and waited for a knowing wink from the waitress. Nothing. It seems the crowded Chili's was insulated from the Most Important Social Event of the Month. Evidence: the other drinks ordered at my table were a margarita and some fruity concoction with "calypso" in the name. They were two-for-one.
My cosmo was not.
As we paid our bill and told the waitress we were trying to get to a movie on time, she asked what we were going to see.
I guess it wasn't obvious.
It was after 9 when we left the restaurant. The theater is only a few minutes away, but we were still sweating. My boss, whose daughters were visiting New York City, had told me they were devastated to find out that tickets there on opening weekend had sold out weeks earlier.
But we walked up to the Zephyrhills Cinema 10 ticket window, paid and walked right in. I regard that as a minor miracle.
My friend and I had been joined by our gay boyfriends, who weren't fans of the show but were hip to see the flick all the same. Given that gay boyfriends were regular fixtures on the arms of Carrie and Charlotte throughout the show's run, nothing about our group seemed unusual. But when one of the guys went to pay for himself and his boyfriend, the box office teller asked, "What is he, your date?"
The movie was delightful and funny. I'm not writing a review. But suffice it to say that minus the blatant product whoring and overblown girlfriend lovefest (I found the TV series preferably more subtle), I loved it.
We had to endure a crying baby at one point. Of all the movies to bring an infant to …
There was, of course, nowhere to go afterward. No clubs or after-hours parties. We let out our snobby lament and said good night.
Still, I was grateful. I spotted the perks.
I saw the movie that every woman everywhere was dying to see, on opening night, with a great group of friends. I got to drink my perfect pink cosmo beforehand. I arrived at the box office 10 minutes before showtime and got right in.
And my popcorn cost $2.
Molly Moorhead can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org or (727) 869-6245.