When was growing up, my father lived in fear of five words: “Can we go to Blockbuster?”
It’s not the he wasn’t a movie fan. He was, and is, one of the biggest I know. What he wasn’t a fan of was the time it took me to pick out a movie.
You see, it wasn’t enough for me to just rent a movie. I had to rent the PERFECT movie. You know...the one where after I chose it, confetti would rain down and everyone in the store would cease their own movie search to clap and cheer as I ran toward the counter, bestowing high-fives on them all.
That perfect movie.
And I had a process. First I had to choose the genre. Then I had to read the back covers of pretty much every movie in those aisles. Then I had to take into account my mood and the moods I perceived in anyone who might be watching it with me.
On a good night, I was out within an hour. On a less decisive one, I was out when my father threw me over his shoulder and marched out the door.
He would valiantly try to speed the process along. He’d offer suggestions of movies that he thought I would love. I’d listen very nicely, thank him for telling me about said film, and tell him I would certainly keep it in mind during my deliberations. I honestly can’t tell you how many times, after another forty-five minutes or so of waffling, I would end up choosing dad’s suggestions.
And I would, of course, love it.
But come the next foray into Blockbuster, poor dad would be left standing there in the aisle holding his suggestion whilst I scampered off to look into another fifteen movies.
I used to think that I wouldn’t get sucked into such a time vortex if I had all these movies at home. It was the whole having to leave the house to get them that made me so intent on picking the perfect one. Because I couldn’t just switch to another if I decided I didn’t like once I got home.
But the other night I decided I was going to watch something on Netflix. I was in the mood for a comedy, so I clicked the tab and they popped up. Forty minutes later I was still scrolling. Still trying to decide between the five or so that I had whittled down to.
WHICH WAS THE PERFECT ONE?
*Cut to me rocking back and forth in a corner muttering movie titles under my breath.*
Turns out it has nothing to do with travel time.
Nope. Apparently, my brain just stops functioning at its normal pace when presented with that many story options. Good to know.
Plus side, at least now my dad doesn’t have to stand in an aisle, beating his head against a wall, whilst I peruse.
So…you’re welcome, dad.