I’ve been really emotional lately.

Call it hormones or stress

Or the thought of summer commencing without even a potential fling waiting in the wings.

Regardless, I knew better than to watch “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” today.

I had purposely avoided it when it came out in the theaters.

Or even after it was nominated for an academy award.

Or when it landed in my On Demand menu screen.

But after several nights of binge drinking and flirting with inappropriate men, I decided to give my liver and libido a rest and stay in on a Saturday night.

So the easily predictable happened.

I watched the movie, curled in my covers, the occasional cigarette break, and genuine heartfelt sigh.

A few lamentations later about never looking like Cate Blanchett even if I lose 30 pounds and grow my hair long, and dye it red, and vertically sprout six inches, and high cheekbones, and become an A-list movie star and I’m off into what I like to refer to as the sappy cinema syndrome.

Truthfully…

I laugh when I’m supposed to laugh.

Cry when I’m supposed to cry.

Hide my eyes during the scary parts.

Gag during the gory.

Clap when Will Smith kills aliens.

Cheer when Mel Gibson slays Brits.

I even silence my cell phone.

And throw away my jumbo popcorn feedbag when the credits begin to roll.

My mother and I were the last ones in the theater when “Beaches” first came out, causing an usher to walk down the aisle to our blubbering selves and asked if we “needed assistance?”

I belly laughed so loud during “Forty Year Old Virgin: I was almost escorted from the theater.

I emailed all friends about poker on Saturday night after catching “Rounders.”

Started inserting the phrase “forget about it” into all conversations after watching “Casino.”

Had ridiculously hot sex and threw some pottery after taking in “Ghost.”

Thought about installing a speed bag in my living room after watching Rocky kick Russian ass in his 4th installment.

And opened the bible for the second and last time in my life after muddling through “The Passion of the Christ.”

I’m what some may call a movie producer’s wet dream.

So logically, what can be expected after watching two and a half hours of Brad Pitt as a cute Grandpa, muttering lines like, “nothing ever lasts?”

“Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones you miss.”

“You never know what’s coming for you.”

Let’s be honest here and admit this movie is for girls just like me.

Strong during the daylight.

The kind that struts into the office, still wearing her sunglasses and her iPod cranking Eminem songs, feeling bad ass at a think tank in the District of Columbia at 9:30 in the morning.

And weepy at the end of the day.

Snuggling her stuffed lion because no man wants to spend the night.

Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo.

And buying $500 shoes to compensate for loneliness and a lack of self fulfillment.

Maybe tomorrow I will bust my chubby ass on the treadmill, seriously regretting the thirteen and a half smokes I sucked into my semi-tender, grey lungs today.

I will stow away my copy of “When Harry Met Sally.”

And I will no longer harkon back to the perfect man that was Lloyd Dobler in “Say Anything.”

Cary Grant could shout expletives laced in poop and I’d still fantasize about being Katharine Hepburn’s “Tracy.”

Rest assured I’d end up in his arms wearing a smirk and a beautiful bonnet.

Nazis Schmatzis Mr. Bogart.

Here I am looking at you too Rick Blaine.

Deborah Kerr would have been so much more convincing if she would have taken a swan dive off the Empire State Building.

I want to channel Nicholas Cage when he screams, “I love you!”

Only to hear Cher (minus some Bob Mackey monstrosity) yell back, “snap out of it!”

I guess the problem Rhett, is that I really DO give a damn.

So I’m going to give up for the night…

And watch, “You, Me and Dupree.”