HUNTSMAN

Rained. All weekend.

Thank you, sweet, merciful clouds!

I took the kids to see Snow White and the Huntsman.

So I could see the Huntsman.

Because I would very much like to be his bait.

Or tackle.

I know that he is a god; I mean Thor. I mean not human. Or real.

I understand that the man who portrays him is young enough to be my son - had I been a teenage mama.

I also realize said actor is quite happily married (to a gorgeous woman who is too old to be my daughter) and he would therefore not even look twice at Jennifer Aniston.

Don't care. About any of it.

Because the Huntsman, whomever he is,  is scrumdillyicious; i.e. breathtaking; i.e. supremely smokin'.

And he can act!  Choose any movie he adorns, and you'll immediately recognize him as the actor playing the part of the wooden caricature.  

Not so in Snow White and the Huntsman. There's this poignant scene when Huntsman is telling a deceased Snow White about his deceased wife and how much he loved his wife and how much he misses his wife and how much Snow White reminds him of his wife. Dabbing at tears, I am watching Huntsman speak through his tears, and I am thinking, "Don't save her with love's true kiss! Save me! I can play dead and I'm a wife!"

Speaking of him speaking, shall we reflect on Huntsman's accent?

So gruff. So lyrical. So Aussie.

I wonder if he can sing.

In my ear.

I'll admit  it. It was a bit disconcerting to be seated in a Cineplex between my teenage daughters -  who were also quite clearly (and appropriately) smitten with the Huntsman, and my pre-teen and teen sons - who alarmingly found the Queen to be more enticing than Snow White. For 145 minutes, I pretended to be riveted by the suspense and action, one hand held firmly over my mouth. 

Truth is, I wasn't thinking about suspense or action. I was horrified I might murmur (or shout at the screen,) "Snow White is dull!  Pick me! I'm a grown-up! I'm a Queen, and I'm rarely evil!"

Truther truth is, my hand remained clamped over my mouth because I was afraid I might drool. 

And soggy popcorn is disgusting. 

Sigh. This is so unlike me. Mooning over some unattainable guy who oozes charm, gorgeousness, and youth. Quite certain I haven't done that since Brad became obsessed with  Angelina.

The hunky hulky Huntsman isn't even my type. At least, I don't think he's my type. Did I ever have a type? Do I even remember how to type? 

Upon 48 hours of introspection and contemplation, the only explanation I have for why I cannot stop thinking about the Huntsman is, dot dot dot,  drum roll, please.

I am having a mid-life crisis. 

My daughters are leaving me. They are off to get educated, and maybe meet huntsmen of their own. 

They are leaving me with Husband and two pre-Huntsmen who will drag me to baseball, basketball, volleyball games, track meets, and action movies, rather than dark, enchanted forests.

No skipping or frolicking for us. We will hike and fish, using words like 'bait' and 'tackle' to refer to worms and gear.

I can see it now. On a rocky riverbank I sit alone, camera in hand, watching my boys as they so hopefully cast lines and lures into deep, sparkling water. Occasionally I spin the camera lens to zoomiest, and search  the forest beyond the river for Huntsman - who just might be lurking.

Or acting on a movie set.

Hmmm. H-U-N-T-S-M-A-N and H-U-S-B-A-N-D share five letters.

Perhaps I should just ask Husband to start speaking in Aussie and  let his hair grow long enough to pull into a ponytail.  

That, or hope for rain every weekend.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Life is short. Embrace your fairy tale.