Last night, I stuck into a movie.
I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t some covert op I had planned beforehand. In fact, there was nothing covert about it.
My husband and I met up with a group of his co-workers to check out The Avengers (an excellent movie, by the way). And like a good little planner, I figured I’d stop by the ladies’ room before the movie. As we were standing near the ticket line, I spotted the restroom across the way, near the concessions. So I strolled over there (took me about five minutes). On the way, I passed a guy sitting by a table. I made eye contact, smiled, and kept walking.
When I came out of the bathroom, the group stopped by concessions and then we headed in to the movie. Once we sat down, I realized… we hadn’t shown anyone our tickets. Where was the ticket collector person in this theater? In most theaters I had been to, they were after the concessions, before those long, dark hallways of wonder.
I asked my husband and he said, “Oh yeah, that guy you walked right past. I told him you had already gone through when I handed him our tickets.”
Whoops. No lie, folks, I had looked right at the guy. I expected him to ask me for my ticket if he was the one supposed to be taking them.
Maybe he knew I was just going for the bathroom. Maybe he knew I was with a group who’d be coming through soon. Maybe I looked like someone who had already exited and was coming back in (like Mandy Moore, perhaps? Cannot count the number of times I’ve been told I look like her. Not that I mind — gives me someone to use for hairstyle ideas.). I don’t know why he didn’t stop me. But for some reason, he didn’t even say a word when I walked past.
Maybe he just didn’t know what to do at the time. I’ve been there, watching as someone walks by, wondering if I should tell them the tag is sticking out of their shirt or there’s a piece of lint on the back of their skirt.
My husband said it’s my honest face. I’ve been told that before—that I have a trustworthy face. Which could be why people often unburden themselves to me. I don’t mind it. I’m a good listener and I genuinely care. I guess it shows. But it starts to get a bit funny when you’re standing in a grocery store line and it’s the third time that month that someone has shared their life story.
Maybe I’m that person people find when they need help. And I smile and nod and tell them everything will be okay. And then they move on with their lives and find that, indeed, everything is okay.
Or maybe I’m just the girl who wanders past the ticket-taker.
Time will tell, I suppose.