When I was a little girl, Oscar night was a very big deal. Obsessed with movie stars, I had to be in on every moment of Hollywood's self-congratulatory celebration. The whole day turned into an event (I even talked my mom into staying home from school one year) and I mapped it out like a wedding planner. Ballot with my predictions - check; special dinner in front of the TV - check; suitable attire - check. If I couldn't be one of them, I was going to use this yearly opportunity to pretend I was.
Remember, these were the days before pre-shows, post-shows and fashion reviews so we're only talking about a 3-4 hour commitment. If I were going to show the same dedication today, I'd have to plant my tush in a comfy chair for an entire weekend and carve out half a day on Monday to catch all the coverage on after-parties and best-dressed lists (and that's not even including The Golden Globes, The SAGs, The People's Choice, and any one of the other twenty-seven awards shows that are on between January and March). And who's got that kind of time?
So, last night, for the gazillionth time, I revisited my childhood ritual. I watched as beautiful (if surgically enhanced) celebrities paraded around in sparkly designer dresses and millions of dollars worth of jewelry. I listened as they were interviewed about their outfits, their award day rituals, and their nerves. The "who are you wearing" insanity hadn't been a part of the broadcasts I remember so fondly twenty or thirty years ago; it was all about seeing Jack Lemmon or Dustin Hoffman or Jack Nicholson give their winning speech; it was all about seeing legends like Jimmy Cagney or John Wayne or Audrey Hepburn make a surprise appearance.
I still love movies. I still hope to see all of this year's nominees. And I still get choked up seeing someone get emotional about winning a prize they've always dreamed of winning.
But the Oscars are just not as much fun as they used to be.
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