A Movie Date and the Legend of Alabama "Danielle" Worley: Our True Romance

 So the last couple weeks have just been a little “off” for me. I’ve learned in the past year that these dips have a clinical name, and maybe that’s what’s been happening. Or maybe it’s Ashley, who despite being five months old today, apparently only slept through the night when she was tucked in by my mom or older sister back in Texas. Now, in Arizona, she stares at me in the early mornings with these big eyes that say, “I miss Grandma and Aunt Jenn.” Me too, kid. Me too. Sleep has been scarce.

It could also be hormones. I’ve been lucky to avoid true postpartum depression, but I know from experience that my body doesn’t feel back to normal for about a year after having a baby. And honestly, my “baseline normal” is already a little chaotic. Then there’s my dad’s heart attack, thankfully “light” as those go, but still a gut-punch of reality.

Bubs noticed I was a little off, so he asked if I wanted a night with just him; dinner, a movie, walking around like two adults. We made plans to hit the fancy shopping center nearby, get dinner, and just be us. But when it came time to get ready, I felt guilty leaving Ashley. I hadn’t spent enough time with Abby and TJ either, and I just wasn’t in the mood to dress up and go out. I still wanted to be with Bubs though, so I figured if the kids were with the nanny, I’d feel less guilty at least being in the house.

So he suggested a movie night. He had one in mind: True Romance. He said the heroine reminded him of me. Usually when Bubs says something like this, it’s not a compliment. I’m braced for “the dingbat blonde” who drives her car onto an active runway, or the one who points left and exits stage right. Basically, Karen Smith with less charm.

Movies are kind of a minefield for us anyway. Early in dating, I was the classic, “as long as I’m with you, we can watch whatever!” girlfriend. By about 18, I had seen enough space battles, enough ears sliced off, and enough “Kaiser Söze” reveals (that still don’t make sense) to decide movies might be better enjoyed separately. Bubs is a cinephile. I… am not. When I drag him to a romcom and ask if he would sprint across the Sydney Opera House grounds like Ben did for Bea in Anyone But You, he reminds me that “in-universe, we’d both be dead because the helicopter rescue scene was impossible.” Oh, excuse me that my movie didn’t have the “realism” of laser swords and heads in boxes.

So when he said True Romance had a heroine who reminded him of me, I told him to tread lightly. He promised I’d love her.

The movie starts like most of Bubs’ picks: lonely guy in an antique theater on a deserted street, ominous foreshadowing everywhere. Then she walks in. The ditziest blonde imaginable. Heels clacking, faux leopard coat, apparently no shirt under it, popcorn spilling everywhere. Then she loudly asks to be caught up on what she missed. I glared at Bubs. Told him I was done. This was clearly his way of teasing me for all the times I’ve whispered, “Wait, who’s that guy again?” during his movies.

He swore she’d get better. He said she was one of the most beloved female characters of the ’90s. And then when it was revealed she was a prostitute, I stayed watching only so I could stock up on ammunition for the fight we were going to have later on. 

But then came the billboard scene. She’s curled up in his clothes, confessing her love after just a few hours, and somehow she makes smoking look sexy instead of tragic. And I realized I wasn’t just watching another “Bubs movie.” I was meeting her. The woman who would marry a man after a single night. The Alabama Worley.

When the movie revealed her humanity, I loved her instantly. The outfits; faux leopard, neon minis, rhinestones that should’ve been tacky but on her looked like armor. The way she smiled like she knew she was trouble but couldn’t care less. Her loyalty,  Alabama would follow her man through anything, even when “anything” included drug deals gone wrong and running for their lives. She never quit, not when it got bloody, not when it got absurd. She was this wild mix of sugar and steel: the kind of woman who could cry into your chest one second and smash a bottle over a mobster’s head the next. And yes the willingness to have sex in a phone booth? Iconic. Maybe not the most hygienic, I'll leave it your imagination how I might know. 

But it was the softer moments that sealed it for me. Like when she met Clarence’s dad and you could see she was nervous, fidgeting, playing with the dog, trying to make a good impression. And then suddenly she’s cartwheeling across the rocky driveway like a little kid showing off. I laughed because… that’s me. Or at least the me that spent half my life tumbling and flipping as a gymnast, trying to cover nerves with motion. There was something so human about it; this fearless woman who could take on gangsters with a corkscrew still got shy around her new husband's dad. That’s when she stopped being just a character and started feeling like someone I could’ve been friends with.

What I think hooked me most was that she never stopped fighting. Even when she was scared, she was never fragile. And when she loved, she loved loud, messy, and all-in. No hedging, no “let’s wait and see.” She just threw herself into it and dared the world to keep up.

And then there’s the ending. That cheerful yet haunting xylophone music playing while Alabama’s voice floats over it, confessing that she’ll always be in love with Clarence, and that he’s just “so cool.” It’s romantic, but also a little heartbreaking, like she knows love is equal parts survival and surrender. And it hit me that maybe that’s what makes her timeless.

That’s when I looked at Bubs-- who was watching me more than the screen -- and realized why he’d been so insistent. Because from his perspective, Alabama Worley isn’t just this cult-classic heroine. She’s me.

He sees me as the girl in the outrageous outfit who makes a scene without meaning to. The one who will always ask for the plot recap but will never, ever walk away once she’s in. The woman who throws her whole heart behind him even when the odds are stacked, even when I’m scared, even when I complain about it on the way. He sees my loyalty as stubbornness in the best sense, that I’d ride with him anywhere, no matter how stupid the plan sounds on paper. He sees the part of me that doesn’t quit, even when I probably should. And maybe he even remembers that girl who still gets nervous around his mom and is still intimidated by his dad; the one who play's with the dogs, chatters to fill the silence, maybe even cartwheel across the lawn if the mood struck.

So maybe that’s what Bubs was giving me with this movie: permission. Permission to be depressed, to be scared, to be neurotic and cancel a date at the last minute. Because just like Alabama has her Clarence, I have my Bubs. And he’s so cool.