Film buff.

My back hurts. I haven’t been doing any heavy lifting, either. Mostly, I’ve been sitting down, staring at glowing screens of various sizes. For example, this weekend I sat down and stared at two very large, glowing screens, for approximately two hours each. During this time, I also consumed heated corn kernels slathered with churned bovine milk and a box of chocolate-covered, sun-dried grapes. I did this in the company of total strangers, in a dark room that smelled like the circus. By now, you’ve probably guessed that I am referring to the act of Going to the Movies. Congratulations. We will celebrate with cake and ice cream at a yet-to-be-determined date. For now, you are required to listen to me complain about the perfectly deplorable standards of movie theater seating technology in this modern era. Not only are the seats only marginally superior to the ones you will find in a pre-Korean War elementary school auditorium, but theater staff makes no attempt to repair those that were apparently recently used by a hippopotamus. I know this because I had the pleasure of sitting in two broken theater seats in two completely different movie theaters this weekend. Instead of being parallel to the ground, these sorry excuses for derriere depots angled downward, creating a hopelessly awkward alignment of my spine and forcing me to twist and turn for 120 minutes while some aloof vampires and warewolves dry-humped each other to “Now That’s What I Call Music 97!” Hey, don’t judge me, OK? We all make sacrifices. Especially husbands with wives who are obsessed with an unimaginative saga about vampire pregnancy. Which is why I must continue rehabbing with ice packs and Sportscenter. Go away.