If we lived life as a movie, it would be full of inalienable, catchy soundy truths. You know the ones, we get them from the movies.
“With great power comes great responsibility.” (clearly not. Ask the bankers.)
“You had me at hello.” (Stupid. Just stoopid.)
More importantly, if life was a movie, it wouldn’t have the boring bits (unless, of course, it was called The English Patient), and you would have a cool soundtrack running so there was always something to listen to.
The current part of my life would be a gritty montage of icy wind and warm baking, laughing family moments and dull staring out the window, with repeat shots of feeding the cats. Little Person’s life would be one of those countdown to deadline day graphics, with happy excited music playing (the deadline being Birthday – an event still months away). We don’t have to wait in movies, the characters only wait metaphorically.
Bad advice, musical cues of impending events, neat resolutions and no waiting. Life as a movie wouldn’t be a bad option. Except that it wouldn’t really be living. And movies don’t have smell.
We bravely went to church tonight, and the place was packed. Little Person sat on my lap and her recent growth spurt meant my nostrils were full of the smell of her – a little of the soap she uses, but mostly that earthy cinnamony smell that is uniquely her. I smell it in every load that goes in the washing machine and it reminds me that it is her own smell, not her baby smell, that sweet milky smell all babies share to some extent, but her own sweaty, I like potatoes and chocolatey smell.
And for that alone, I’m glad I’m not in a movie.