Obviously, I'm a big Will Ferrell fan, so, needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to get his latest movie, Semi Pro. I was equally excited for the new Coldplay album, Viva La Vida.
I was less enthused when I got home.
Not because of the quality, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed both. My significant other can attest to that, as last time we watched the movie, I was writhing with hysterical laughter.
In fact, I laughed so hard, I began that silent laughter - eyes closed, mouth wide open, maybe a little hiss or two. You know the one, where you have to stop yourself because you're no longer breathing.
No, it wasn't the product. It was the package.
Oh yes, that shiny plastic with its colorful stickers, gleaming from its conveniently placed spot on the shelf.
Of course, I can't avoid the plastic so tightly wound around my grand prize, so I reassure my delusions that this purchase is a good idea, no matter what.
When I get home, it's just me and that plastic
With a sigh, I pull it out of the bag.
First, I assess my nail situation - is there enough to do the job? Finding a sharp utensil is out of the question. My nails are right here, and sharp things are elsewhere. It's just too much work.
Furthermore, using scissors on this task is almost an insult. I can do it myself - I don't need no stinking scissors, as my father might say.
Besides that, scissors are never readily available. I can only find them when I have absolutely no use for them.
In fact, sometimes when I stumble upon them in the house, I'll frantically search for one of those pre-approved credit cards and chop it to oblivion. Just out of spite that I can't find them when I actually need them.
So I know I'm going to immediately regret this decision, but I choose to open that package with my recently filed-down nails and brute strength alone.
Here we go.
The first step is location - where are the edges sealed together? It's impossible to find an easy way to tear open that clear nonsense. There is no way I'm going to figure out which edge of the plastic is on top and which is on bottom.
So I'm running my fingers over the seal, trying to get a nail underneath, hoping I'll make it work this time and it will all be over with. It's unfortunate that I am always wrong.
Sure, I manage to break the glue and get a little corner of the seal sticking up, but this is several minutes after the scissors would have been done with the whole thing.
Ever so gently, I pinch the corner between my fingers and begin to peel it back. Feeling success so close at hand, a triumphant smile spreads across my once-troubled face.
Oh no, this fight isn't over so easily. To my horror, the plastic tears the wrong way and I look down to see only a sliver of it in my fingers, like a tiny glass shard.
The smile quickly dissipates. I take a deep breath, maybe two, and think to myself, "This is OK. You can do it, just peel slower."
So I get my nail under the opening and start peeling once again.
How can each effort produce such an insignificant amount of progress? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills at this point.
Finally, in a desperate act of self-preservation, I scramble with the case. Clawing, biting and screaming are all fair game; anything to get that plastic out of my life.
After several more minutes, and one or two people discovering me in a crazed state, offering to help, and receiving a low growl through my clenched teeth as a response, I break the plastic in a T-shirt ripping, Hulk-like manner.
I'm now laughing maniacally with the CD in one hand, raised triumphantly, and those nearby are staring in shock as they just witnessed a mental breakdown.
As I prepare myself to open the hard-earned prize, light shining on me and music playing gloriously, I hear a chuckle. Whether it's inside my head or someone in the room, I don't know because I'm past the point of no return.
I hear a quiet voice say, "Did you forget about the tape on the sides of the case?"
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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.
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