It's possible I'm a chick

I’m sitting downstairs next to the shelf unit on which we’ve arranged our collection of DVDs. Along the top are TV shows one of us loved enough that someone else gifted the boxed sets: Friends, Gilmore Girls (bluch!), West Wing (yowser!), Band of Brothers. We’ve all the Harry Potters and a wide range of musicals, although the latter collection was seriously reduced when Daughter One moved to the Least Coast, taking her DVDs with her.

So far, so good. But then, I start looking at the single movie titles, pausing over my favorites.  It’s not long before I realize there’s a certain discomfiting theme emerging. I mean, I love Runaway Jury and Inglourious Basterds and Sleepers and Das Boot  (but only the original German with English sub-titles). I’ve watched The Great Escape several times over the years and The Boy in the Striped Pajamas kills me just to look at the title. Sling Blade will always remain a fave – “You gonna eat them taters?” Kills me. No pun intended.  Hotel Rwanda and The Pursuit of Happyness moved me.

But as I started to say, the movies that I could watch over and over all seem aimed at a demographic with which I’m not really comfortable identifying. Love Actually and Under the Tuscan Sun and 27 Dresses and Mr. Holland’s Opus make my ‘A’ list. As do My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Letters to Juliet, Phantom of the Opera and My Girl. I suppose Always is somewhat manly owing to the fire-fighting scenes, but including The Notebook on my list probably does little for my struggling self-image of studliness.   In fact, if we put all my absolute favorites in a stack and then brought a REAL MAN into the room, he’d probably ask who’s been watching the chick flicks.

I don’t care. I like the stories I like.

I guess it’s possible I’m a chick.

Just, please don’t tell anyone.