I'm going to go out on a limb and say that we all have a guilty pleasure that we are reluctant to admit to our friends.
Mine is not one that really fits with my mature and intellectual image (ok stop laughing), but still the fact remains ...
... I'm addicted to the Twilight Films.
When I say addicted, it's not this kind of addicted because what the actual fuck, but whenever they are on TV, that's me for the evening and short of fire or biblical flooding, I don't want to hear from anyone until those end credits role.
In my defence, there is a good scientific reason why I cannot resist the pull of vampiric teen angst. I'm suffering from a bad case of nostalgia.
"Nostalgia has been shown to counteract loneliness, boredom and anxiety. It makes people more generous to strangers and more tolerant of outsiders. Couples feel closer and look happier when they're sharing nostalgic memories. On cold days, or in cold rooms, people use nostalgia to literally feel warmer."
You see that husband? COUPLES FEEL CLOSER! Embrace the damn blood suckers already!
The cause of my nostalgia is not quite three years old; her name is Esme.
During the time I was labouring at home with her, we all started getting a bit frickin bored. It's a common complaint in labour because after the first "WHEEEEE we're having a baby!!!" rush dies down there are hours, upon hours, upon hours of boredom interspersed with moments that really require your attention.
It was several hours into this phase of my labour when one of my midwives suggested a film, and unable to speak at that point, I flared my nostrils to indicate that any DVD she had in her possession which didn't require me to think was just dandy.
A few minutes later she came back from her car with the first three Twilight films.
We watched them back to back, and as promised they required zero brain power and provided just enough mocking opportunities to keep me smiling.
You could say they were the right films at the right time.
You can also imagine my utter joy that, having spent my entire pregnancy in love with the rarity of the name Esme, I should spend my time labouring to a film featuring that very name. No really, the joy was boundless.
Almost a year later, the films started to appear on TV and within seconds, they would flood me with memories of labouring with Esme. Good memories, happy memories, not just of the three hours we watched those films but for the many awesome, affirming things that happened over those three days.
As you can imagine, my husband is not overly keen to share my nostalgia.
His nostalgia lies in revisiting the abuse reserved for anything too un-cool to be of interest. In fact he has shown so little interest that when I finally got to see the last film in the series the other night, his words were "wait, what, is there someone in this film called Esme?"
Attention to detail fella, you have it.