Last night I went to see Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet, because I’d never seen it and they’re doing a Luhrmann month at one of the cinemas to lead up to Gatsby. (Picoreview: It was pretty good. Bits felt like a dry run for Moulin Rouge, but it was pretty good.) Upon arriving at the Lighthouse Cinema I discovered there was a Star Trek party scheduled for a midnight premiere. Upon *leaving* R+J, I ran into friends…who had a spare ticket.
I did not go. Somewhat grumpily and bitterly and regretfully, I did not go, because Young Indiana wakes up by 7am no matter when I go to bed, and staying out until 3am is sheer stupidity under those circumstances. I went home feeling that being an adult sucks.
Indy woke up irrevocably at 10 to 6 this morning, so that pretty well justified behaving like a grownup, and assuaged the regret.
Still sucks, though.
OTOH, Ted’s meepful, sorrowful, “Did you see Star Trek?” when I began to relate this story to him made me glad I hadn’t gone anyway, though had he and I not just that evening discussed going together this weekend if possible, I might’ve thrown all caution to the wind and gone anyway. :)
I had to run for the train when I left the cinema. I find I don’t mind running if I have somewhere to go (and, er, don’t have too far to go, either :)). I absolutely cannot interest myself in running for the sake of it, although I’m sure it would be more fun/comfortable/satisfying to run when I *have* to if I was more fit for it.
Between that brief run and going to a yoga class yesterday (I swear I could breathe better after it, even if I’m really humiliatingly out of shape, and also, it seems, in need of more potassium in my diet), I could not help wondering why it is that one can be, at bedtime, thoroughly and enthusiastically committed to the idea of exercising, and by morning have lost all enthusiasm for the venture. Seriously, what’s with brains.
Seems like there was something else I was going to post, but can’t think of what. Ah well.