Crash Into Me

Ever since I’ve started playing soccer again I’ve found myself focusing on two things. First, it’s hard not to remember the two glorious, kickass goals I’ve scored since I’ve been back, which, I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve replayed over and over in my head an absurd number of times; the other thing is the intense worry about getting injured again. I have spent an inordinate amount of time on crutches in my adult life and it is all my own doing, and all soccer related, and I find myself replaying the worst of those crutching days over in my head as well.

Here is one of those dud memories: in 1996 when I had ACL surgery the first time, on my left knee, the incision became infected and required a second operation 10 days later. It significantly slowed down my recovery process, since I ended up spending another week in the hospital. When I finally emerged from all that, there was lots more recovery time required, all on crutches, and I quickly grew very bored of being stuck at home. My first outing was to a movie with Steve. Guess what movie we decided to go see? Crash, by David Cronenberg. (Not to be confused with the more recent movie Crash, which won the Academy Award for best pic in 2004.) We didn’t know much about it, other than that it had been nominated for the Golden Palm award at the Cannes Film Festival, and that it was supposed to be kind of dark and edgy. We ended up going to the very first showing of the film available in the city.

Do you remember this movie? It starred James Spader, Holly Hunter and Rosanna Arquette. I checked it on imdb.com this morning and here is the blurb:

After getting into a serious car accident, a TV director discovers an underground sub culture of scarred omnisexual car crash victims who use car accidents and the raw sexual energy they produce to try to rejuvenate his sex life with his wife.

Umm, omnisexual? What is that, exactly? I’m terrified to google it because of what kind of ads may start to show up in my Facebook sidebar. Also, what is with the phrase ‘car accidents and the raw sexual energy they produce’? I must admit that energy seems to be missing from any little fender benders I’ve been involved in. (Oh god, now even my use of the expression ‘ fender bender’ sounds sexual. What’s going on? Damn you, creepy David Cronenberg!) The point I’m trying to make is that this is a disturbing movie that features people who fetishize car accidents, and from what I remember, everyone in the film becomes slightly beat up looking and it’s meant to be a turn on-- Rosanna Arquette’s character has metal leg splints and a neck brace at one point and she’s supposed to be hot.

Going to this movie in the theatre was bizarre and embarrassing enough. Going to this movie on the opening day while limping in and out slowly on crutches was much, much worse. It looked like I was a wannabe character from the movie who had crashed my car on the way to the theatre and wrecked my knee on purpose so I could see this desperately weird Cronenberg movie and then go get boned by my husband in the parking lot in our smouldering vehicle.

What is the moral of this story? I’ll tell you what is not the moral: stop playing soccer because you are getting too old and get hurt all the time. Also, the moral is not ‘Patience is a virtue’ or some other cloying cliché. Here’s what I think the moral is: if you’re going to get it on with your husband after a movie, don’t do it in your car in the parking lot. No one needs to see that.