Chick Flicks: The Average Man’s Kryptonite

I recently experienced one of the most enduring things a man can: a chick flick.

The term “chick flick” is a noun, defined in the dictionary as “torture to the male gender; kryptonite”

Yes, I admit it, I watched a chick flick. The wifey wanted to grab dinner, then watch Confessions of a Shopaholic and I agreed. I believe in the motto: You have to choose your battles wisely.

It was opening weekend, Valentine’s Day weekend, and the theatre was packed with couples celebrating Valentine’s Day and flocks of single women gathered in their “girl-power-I-don’t-need-a-man” posses.

I fell into the group of helpless men dragged against their will to endure 2 hours of whimsical musings of shopping, label whoring, and the necessary pursuit of love.

I sat down and took a quick look around, sharing knowing glances with other guys in my situation. When we made eye contact, we gave each other that defeated, “Al Bundy” look.

We were lambs fed to the lions — lambs that voluntarily entered the den even after hearing the roars of battle (which might easily be confused with anxious “oohs and ahhs” and “click-clacks” of high heels entering the theatre)

Call us lambs, call us Al Bundy. Whatever the case, we were stuck in the seats, firmly planted for the next 2 hours or so without any relief that an ESPN highlight might otherwise provide. (What I would give to see an old school replay of Kevin Johnson’s dunk on Hakeem)

If the movie wasn’t enough, I forgot about the 30 minutes of trailers that shows before each feature. It’s like grabbing a cup of coffee at the office, only to find that the courteous person before you politely left exactly half of cup for you. Sitting through the trailers felt like the 3 minutes of agony watching the pot brew.

The movie finally starts and we were instantly inundated with clothes, shoes, accessories, shops — obviously that’s all that Manhattan has to offer.

But as Shopaholic played along, there were strange noises emanating from the crowd. It was hard to tell, but it sounded like laughter. But it didn’t make sense. The tone of the laughter was too low…it couldn’t have originated from a woman. It had to be a man laughing, unless Kathleen Turner was unexpectedly in the audience.

I turned to see another guy smiling, chuckling, and turning to his partner in agreement of the onscreen happenings. This couldn’t be, because these would be signs of enjoyment. A look of disgust fell over my face, only to be washed away by an involuntary smile of my own. And without hesitation, as a perfectly timed attack on my manhood, a chuckle began to form in my chest whose public escape was only prevented by putting my hand over my mouth.

I was confused, kind of like Michael Jackson stuck in a children’s petting zoo. (get your mind out of the gutter — you pet animals, not kids)

Laughter coming from me? What?!? This couldn’t be! Was I actually entertained by the clever, witty British humor that Shopaholic offered? Or by the finely timed comedic antics of Isla Fisher? Maybe I enjoyed the onscreen chemistry between Fisher and Hugh Dancy (who ironically shares the first name of another actor he will inevitably be compared to).

Nah, don’t be fooled. We might be laughing on the outside, but on the inside we Al Bundy’s know exactly what we’re doing. We do the dinner and movie just for the dessert.

Check the strip.

Chick Flick Shopaholic