I’ve been obsessing for the last couple of months over the soul-kissing awesomeness that is John Adams on HBO. However, my pointless pilgrimage to Pennsylvania last week meant that I ended up getting behind. Over the last two nights, I watched the final two episodes of the smartest mini-series ever made. (It’s science.) But you can imagine my horror to learn that John and Abigail Adams were actually parted by death. And what a death scene. He’s broken by grief, cuddling next to her in her sick bed, kissing her face streaked with their tears, begging her to hold on, pointing out the hydrangeas he brought her in a vase (note to fiancé: imminent death not a requirement for bestowing flowers.) I was curled up in my fiancé’s lap watching it and I am quite certain that I saw a little eye rubbing up above me, although it was hard to tell over my indelicate sobbing.
It should be said that the Bird does not cry at movies. Documentaries about war or a suffering people, maybe. The final scene in Love Actually when The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” is playing and everyone’s hugging at the airport, yes. And the scene in Grosse Pointe Blank where John Cusack holds up the baby and has his swift spiritual kick upside the head. And pretty much every minute of The Bicycle Thief. But other than that, I do not cry at movies.
However, being engaged is softening my resistance. Watching couples like John and Abigail Adams say goodbye suddenly starts hitting too close to home. I begin doing the math in my head: fiancé is 11 years older than I am…women typically live longer than men…BLURG! Every time I watch a movie now I find myself pondering the timeworn, “Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” question. Is this normal? I don’t know. But I do know what the antidote is: Titanic or The English Patient. Because oddly enough, I find the endings of both of those flicks hi-larious.
UPDATE: My fiancé asserts that he was most definitely not tearing up. He was making a lasagna…for one. Muh huh.