68-Day Cinema

Have we ever discussed how fun it is not to be pregnant? No swollen ankles. No aching lower back. No restrictions on caffeine, alcohol, or Space Mountain. The joys of unpregnancy are on my mind today, not because my own “with childness” has been in question, but because my advisor canceled our 11 a.m. weekly meeting due to her impending (Thanksgiving Day) delivery. “I can’t really move,” she explained over the phone. Mobility: hard to overrate.

Like a good advisee, I made sympathetic noises and offered “anything I can do to help.” I then thanked the anti-fertility gods and ran to the grocery store for wine, coffee, and maybe a non-craved jar of pickles. Skipped the ice cream aisle.

Even with wonky hormones and sore feet, my advisor is a pleasant person. I really would help her if I could, but in the oft-quoted words of Butterfly McQueen, “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies.” I will, however, gladly volunteer for diaper duty when I return to New Orleans in the spring.

Yeah, I’ve decided to go back. My landlord says the apartment is in good shape, and the Tulane Web site continues its abuse of exclamation points (“Only 68 days until the first day of classes!” “Students, parents head back to campus!”). As I read these enthusiastic snippets, I imagine Tulane’s provosts skipping around their desks and spontaneously bursting into song: University Renewal, the Musical.

My own punctuation of choice is the ellipsis. I’m not certain how I feel about leaving Charlottesville...guess I’ll adjust.

Ambiguity triggers odd desires for me. I’m not talking sauerkraut with chocolate sauce -- my appetite is more cinematic. I need to see When Harry Met Sally.

When Harry Met Sally is my mac ‘n’ cheese: my comfort movie. Feel free to share your own. A good friend credits Grease for easing her through her harder-partying early 20s. She claims that Grease is the perfect hangover flick: from start to finish, it matched the length of her post-debauchery nausea. “I knew that by the time Sandy and Danny sailed off in the convertible, I’d be okay,” she said.

When Harry Met Sally is 90 minutes long -- enough time to feel depressed without sliding into Radiohead territory. The length isn’t so important to me, though, nor is the dialogue or most of the plot. I do believe men and women can be friends.

Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal aren’t my favorite actors, either. As a romantic-comedy team, I prefer Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh (well, before they got divorced).

I think I like this movie for what it isn’t. It’s not a “love at first sight” tale. Harry and Sally meet after college, but they stumble around for 10 years before falling for each other. There isn’t much action: no big vacation montages or career moves. Sally lunches with friends; Harry practices softball. The path to their happy ending is neither complicated nor extraordinary.

And Harry Connick Jr. does the soundtrack.

Class now. Class again in...68 days. In between, I’ll be with my remote.