True Story Tuesday - Mummified & Petrified

Since I spoke of vampires (or dirty, scuzzy actresses... whichevs you prefer) yesterday, I decided it would be as good a time as any to discuss my hatred of scary movies. I'm a complete woose, wimp and scaredy cat when it comes to all things scream-inducing. In fact, I can rarely sit through the entire film, as evidenced by this little middle school humiliation.

I was Polka Dot No-Friends when I first started the small, Christian school I attended for four years. I wanted desperately to be popular, but it just wasn't happening for me. You know what they say, though, it only takes one person to think you're cool for everyone else to catch on. Thankfully, in 7th grade a tall, popular, blonde volleyball teammate (we'll call her Oklahoma) decided that I was worthy of admittance into the in-crowd.

My first official outing was with a co-ed group of 7th and 8th graders to the local movie theater, where middle schoolers went to see and be seen. We were going to see The Mummy (yes, the one starring Brendan Fraser), and to say I was nervous was an absolute understatement. Not only was I trying to impress my new cohorts, but I knew that the film would test my fear thresholds. And, boy, was I right.

About 15 minutes into the movie I leaned over and whispered to Oklahoma, "If one more of those bugs crawls under someone's skin, I'm out of here." She assured me that all would be well and settled back with her popcorn. A mere 2 minutes had elapsed when yet another bug incident pushed me over the edge. I leapt from my seat and jetted to the bathroom. My sweet friend followed me and asked if I wanted to call my mom to come pick me up. Too proud and ashamed to do that, I told her I would be fine and urged her to head back into the theaters and continue her passionate inter-digitated handholding with her young beau.

So how did I spend the next 2 hours? Why, locked in the handicap stall of the ladies room, of course. So as not to draw attention to myself, I would come out of the stall every so often to wash my hands then exit the bathroom, get a drink from the water fountain and return to my stall. At the time there was also an arcade with a photo booth inside. At some intervals of time I would go and sit in the photo booth for a few minutes until I realized that one of the sides was see-through, so other moviegoers could see me just lounging in it. Mortified and desperate, I went to wash my hands again and sit on my porcelain throne listening to the automated theater announcements.

When the movie was finally over I trudged crestfallen toward my group, who spent the evening making fun of the lame special effects and cheap thrills filling The Mummy. I don't know what hurt more... my chapped overly-washed hands or my wounded, bruised ego.

To date, I still refuse to watch The Mummy or any of its subsequent sequels.