Mr. K and I had a town day today, spurred by having to take my car in to the dealer for its 90 thousand mile service appointment. As it worked out, we dropped it off twenty minutes before the first showing of the day of The Rise of Skywalker at the movie theater in the mall across the street, so off we went (our other option was having lunch and then going to see Frozen 2, but I am not at all afraid of getting spoiled for that one, so Star Wars it was.
People, I cried so much. I cried because I am susceptible to emotional manipulation, especially when accompanied by a John Williams score. I cried because I miss Space Mom. I cried because I no longer have so many decades ahead of me as I did when I saw the first Star Wars in 1977 (while I was at band camp in Iowa City; the trumpet player from home on whom I had an unrequited crush organized the outing). I cried because of a bit of fan service that’s probably been roundly dismissed as pandering by critics both amateur and professional. I left the theater feeling wrung out and now, hours later, my eyes still feel puffy. I’m glad we went.
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