The follies of youth

I got an email from an old friend over the weekend telling me I owed her two hours of her life back.

She’d rented a movie I told her I liked a few years ago. It’s a quasi-gangster flick called the Boondock Saints, which, as I recall, I mostly liked because it was filmed in Boston and I thought the leads were hot. Even at the time I knew it was full of shoddy acting and clichés, but I got passed it. I honestly haven't seen it in years and don't recall why I liked it, but I won't deny that I did.

(Sidenote: I found out a few years ago this movie is kind of infamous because of the guy who made it. There’s a scathing documentary about him called Overnight).

When I first read the email, I was embarrassed. Having someone tell you a movie you liked was “painfully bad” and the worst movie she’d seen in a long time always makes you question your taste. Then I started thinking about: I was "all about" that movie when I was 18 or 19, around the same time I was "all about" ska and voluntarily watching Dawson’s Creek. Why would anyone take a recommendation from such a person? Ever?

There’s a lot of things in my past I’m not proud of, stylistically speaking. Movies, music, books, clothes, etc. that I not only enjoyed but was proud of enjoying, on which I now look back and cringe. I like to think I've grown up, matured, become a woman of discriminating tastes, but that doesn't change the fact that I owned a pair of Doc Martins until long after they were socially acceptable (if they ever really were).

Sometimes, these things have a way of creeping up on you like the ghost of Jacob Marley, loudly shaking their chains at inopportune moments and reminding you of just how far you haven't come. Often, this happens one way or another in the form of a person you've known since you were in eighth grade.

Now that I've let some skeletons out of my closet, it's your turn. What terrible reminders of the loser you once were - and deep down inside always will be - do you secretly fear a new boyfriend or girlfriend discovering in a box under the bed: Limp Bizkit CDs, Kabbalah bracelets, the ticket stubs from the 14 times you saw The Blair Witch Project? Spill it, kids!

Meanwhile, I’m going to find a copy of Boondock Saints and see if it was really that bad…