That’s So Sigourney

Or, rather, more aptly, “That’s so Helen Hudson!”

Copycat may seem an odd choice for a middle school era favorite film, but I suspect (as so many were) this selection was dictated by the low volume, high frequency rotation of movies on premium cable channels back in the day. Remember when the only movie on Showtime for two months seemed to be Airheads? Thus, my sister and I have an uncanny ability to quote super-random films… like Copycat. Fun.

One of the most fascinating elements of Copycat, for me, (other than the funny rumblings down below whenever HC, Jr. filled the screen) was Helen Hudson’s crippling agoraphobia.

“WHAT? That’s a thing?” I remember thinking in my super-scoffing, eye-rolly, but-tell-me-more way.

She couldn’t even leave her house, dudes.

But that seemed A-okay. I mean, do you remember her super-sweet pad? With the crazy vertical CD player that sent soothing classical music reverberating through the hardwood hallways of her classically modern townhouse in… wherever they lived? (San Francisco?) I could stay there all the time.

But wait, I guess that brings me to my point: If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that I suffer acute agoraphobia. I’ve linked a definition from Wiki above, and the more I read the less convinced I am that I don’t have some form of mild social agoraphobia. And it strikes mostly women? Uh, shit.

Allow me to explain. These are my new running shoes.

The photo does not do the severity of their orangeness, their off-the-wall loudness, justice. It would have to be a drunk driver – or very old person, hunched dangerously over the wheel – to hit me while I ran the streets in these shoes. But that’s not why I am oddly loathe to take them for a spin.

I love running outside. I even listed it as one of the reasons I was most excited to come to California. But man alive, the idea of lacing up and hitting the downtown LA streets does not sound fun. And not because I’m unaccustomed to vagrants in my path or catcalls from Mexicans when I run. Au contraire! That classiness is the norm in my neighborhood. It’s more like this crazy anxiety that starts in my head about not knowing where I’m going, or who will be on the streets, or what they will think as I galumph by, or will I get kidnapped and killed in an alley, my head to be found in a plastic bag by dog-walkers in Griffith Park below the Hollywood sign? Or what if I’m not as fast as I want to be? And there’s a little bit of “They’re all GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!” thrown in for good measure.

Superfreak styles, right?

So why? It’s the same about lots of stuff. While I was pregnant, I only went to see one movie by myself, even though my husband was working nights and I was basically alone and house-bound all of the time. The only thing that sounded enjoyable was an air-conditioned place where I wouldn’t be seen, and didn’t have to talk about my feeeeelings about having a baby. The movies would have been perfect. And our electric bill, which we will never pay off, would have been much lower. But I just couldn’t handle the whole getting on the train phobia.

I get the same way about going to a new yoga studio. Where will the entrance be? Up stairs? Is there a lobby? Is it just a tiny-ass anteroom, where I will be stuffed in like sardines with a bunch of pretentious fucks that already know each-other and wear the sexiest yoga clothes on earth, woven from unicorn hairs, and practicing handstands to “get warm” before class, and talking – very loudly – about how much fun they had using their neti pots at that slumber party they went to at Shiva-Raga-Gaya-Ste’s loft last week? Before I look at the schedule and realize that Shiva-Raga-Gaya-Ste is, in fact, the instructor today. Uggggh. NA-MA-Stay at home, Kim, it’s not worth it.

Then, there’s the fact that I am a homebody. I succumb to inertia soooo easily. And isn’t that what we strive for, anyway? We want to create a home that is so full of what we like – food, movies, snuggly blankets, deliciously fragrant candles, wireless internet, netflix, wine, beer, coffee from our favorite fancy shade-grown, fair trade coffee shops – that we don’t need to go anywhere. But then, if we don’t ever go anywhere, we’re freaks. THIS DON’T MAKE NO SENSE!

PS: My dog is depressed. It’s so sad. He won’t eat his food sometimes. He just groaned, like, “Another day of this shit? Ughhh. Fine.” It makes me so self-conscious. It adds to the pressure to “Get Up and GO!” I feel coming from the world.

Add to all that that I have a tiny human creature that depends on me for everything, and can’t speak, so I’m always pretty much sure I’m not giving him what he wants/needs, unless my boob is in his mouth, which… I mean, I know there are laws protecting my right to breastfeed anywhere, and I do, but also, sometimes when you’re trying to get out the door, and the kid gets hungry three times in the span of your shower, loading the diaper bag, looking for your purse, changing his clothes because he shit all up the back of his onesie, then also needing to start a load of laundry immediately in order to salvage the burpcloth, blanket and all of your clothes that were “in the line of fire,” you think – “Fuck it. There’s always the Kardashians.”

Also, the wine shop around the corner? De-Livers. Like… to your door.

So, as I miss a brunch party that I was really looking forward to because homeslice junior decided today is the perfect day for a growth spurt, just call me Helen. I think it’s fitting.