Judge not, lest ye be judged

Isaac and I love going to Movies 8, one of two dollar theaters in the area. On any Friday or Saturday night, you’ll elbow your way into the parking lot, collecting yourself in order to face the mad chaos of Provo-ians that will be finishing the convoy with you to the front of the ticket line. Watching everyone in this line is so fascinating to me. I never exchange words with any one of them, but their body language says more their than their words would tell me. So Isaac and I get in the back of the line…behind the unbelievably awkward freshman date—marked by silence and quivering hands. And everyone is stuck next to their friends, who are so incredibly all over each other that it leaves you to think almost audibly: That girl may or may not be pregnant once they reach the ticket counter. To your right, there is the typical dissatisfied, overly-dressed 24-year-old girl who is sulking—arms crossed, hip jutted, eyes rolled—because she thought her first date in 4 months wouldn’t be to the dollar theater…like the last time. All of a sudden you get bumped by a diaper bag strapped to an oblivious, frumpy Mormon mom who is trying to corral her 4 kids while squinting at the movie times and trying to keep an eye out for her husband who’s parking the car. Her husband, a stick of a man with thick leg hair and tall ribbed socks, jogs up, barking orders to their kids to “Sit!”, “Stay!” As everyone turns to look at the family, the wife tries to smooth her blouse across her stomach with her hands. After a couple of palm drags, it makes you wonder if she is actually trying to smooth her shirt or trying to smooth out her gut subconsciously.
Isaac hates these 10 minutes. I happen to enjoy them. It’s like the previews to the previews to the movie. You can’t have a movie theater experience without them. I just wonder what people think about us when we walk up.