Things my wife hates about me: Movie blurting

I lack impulse control when it comes to movies that want me to cry or sigh or care about star-crossed lovers (i.e., chick flicks).  The result is that one moment snarky observations are fomenting in my mind and the next moment I’m asking myself: Did I say that out loud?  But let’s be fair.  Is anything in the world more predictable than a chick flick? (Answer: No).

When the old boyfriend first appears in Sweet Home Alabama, for example, it could not be more obvious that Reese Witherspoon will, near the end of the movie, dump her fiancé, Dr. McDreamy, the rich, handsome, impeccably mannered son of New York City’s mayor.  She will dump McDreamy in the midst of a chaotic wedding scene.  And she will run off with old boyfriend, the struggling artist with nice but unruly hair who has potential.  The first rule of chick flicks is that the girl always chooses guy with potential over guy with pedigree. Every time.

So ten minutes into watching Sweet Home Alabama with my wife, Carissa, the entire movie reveals itself to me.  I am thinking: We already know what's going to happen over the next hour and a half!   I then hear my voice announcing a concise summation of the climax, denouement, and finale.  Then as each prediction inevitably comes true, I give Carissa a knowing nudge:  See?  I was right.  Again! 

Occasionally when this happens, I sense a mildly annoyed shut-up-you’re-ruining-this-movie-for-me vibe from Carissa. Perhaps stronger than mild. She has more than once, in fact, said: “Shut up. You’re ruining this movie for me.” In my defense, I don't do this in public.  Not because I exercise greater restraint when away from home, but  because I seldom see movies in public that feature anything other than talking animals or wizarding prep school children. Plus, I'm sleeping.

So I have this lingering sense that Carissa doesn't appreciate my blurts, no matter how prescient or cogent.  I lasted four minutes into the first Twilight movie.  I noted the inherent creepiness of a 100-year-old man, vampire or otherwise, romancing high school girls.  Carissa cut short my monologue and banished me from the family room.  Titanic got me in trouble when I blurted out that the society girl was going to abandon the snob and fall for poor but earnest Leo DiCaprio (see first rule of chick flicks), but that he would drown after the ship hits an iceberg.   (Oops.  Spoiler alert).  And, if Matthew McConaughey is in a movie here are two guaranteed outcomes: a) the girl will give up a seemingly better prospect for him and b) he will appear shirtless.  Because his characters always have potential.  And abs.

I know I should sit back, shut up, and let Carissa enjoy her movies.  It would be the proper thing to do.  But proper doesn't get the chicks.  It's the potential.  So, as I tell Carissa, I'm kinda like Matthew McConaughey.  A charming scamp would might change his ways with the help of a good woman.  Nonetheless, she lately has banned me from watching chick flicks with her.  I've apparently also ruined some sort of Matthew McConaughey fantasy she had been nurturing.