That’ll be two adults and two inner children

I have a confession to make. My husband, Brad, and I enjoy a certain

But occasionally a tempting new release will force us to watch, in the dark, with other people. And ...

What? Not that kind of movie! Go wash your hypothalamus out with soap. Apparently, while you’ve been skulking around the adults-only section of Odyssey Video, Brad and I have been at the cineplex. Watching “The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie.”

Yes, Brad and I like family films. Preferably animated, with or without anthropomorphized singing animals. “The Incredibles”? “Shrek 2”? “Lilo and Stitch”? Count us in. (“The Polar Express,” not so much. Those kids with the spooky fish eyes scare us a little, honestly.)

The problem is that we are a family of two adults -- unless you count our two neurotic and criminally obese dogs. So you try saying “Two adults for ‘SpongeBob’ ” to the High School Weenie working the ticket counter and see what happens.

“Um,” the High School Weenie says, peering out of his Lucite cage to see if we’re smuggling in toddlers under our sweaters. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” I hiss, clutching a $20 bill and the last shred of my dignity.

High School Weenie pushes the tickets forward with one reluctant finger. He’s sizing us up, trying to determine if we enjoy the company of children a bit too much.

I could have huffily defended myself. Not only was I uninterested in ‘tude from anyone wearing baby blue polyester pants, but, I’d also have told him, today’s kiddie flicks are more sophisticated than Jerry Bruckheimer movies (OK, not saying a lot there), layered with sharp pop culture references only a grown cinephile can fully appreciate.

Blah, blah, blah. Nice try. But even High School Weenie could sniff out the truth like burned popcorn. Sure, a Chaplin homage from a slobbery blue alien has a certain ironic appeal. But really, I just like watching Stitch try to eat his own toes.

So Brad and I find ourselves in sticky movie theater seats, the lone unaccompanied adults without dried-up candy adhered to our sweaters or bloodshot, desperate eyes. And that is when it hits me.

I may enjoy children’s movies, but I have less of an appreciation for children at movies.

Call it age discrimination, but whenever I see a stroller being shoved down the aisle at an R-rated movie, I get my hackles up. Kids make lousy seatmates under the best of conditions. Once they determine a movie has no singing squirrels, they make everyone aware of their displeasure, like tiny, cranky Roger Eberts in cuter outfits. They squirm. They bounce. They ask loud questions and burst into tears for no reason. If I wanted that kind of movie-viewing experience, I’d hit a matinee with Liza Minnelli.

But here, waiting for “SpongeBob” to begin, I’m on their turf. In this alternate universe, children call the shots, like a Nickelodeon remake of “Logan’s Run.” There will be no shushing, no dirty looks for talking over the dialogue. You will get popcorn in your hair and you will like it.

The worst thing is, I swear these kids and their parents know I’m the annoying adult who once griped aloud about the running commentary behind me (“This is boring, Mommy. What are they doing? I want to go home now, Mommy!”) during the sex scene in “The Matrix Reloaded.” Not that I didn’t heartily agree. But still.

Slouching in my seat, I feel the hot breath of a 5-year-old on my neck, redolent with apple juice and resentment. I envision him gazing at my ears, determining which one to render useless with an inhuman shriek.

“There will be squealing,” I mumble to my husband.

“No, you’ll be squealing,” Brad says with an exasperated sigh.

Brad knows from painful experience that when something slides past my carefully cultivated L.A. cynicism and strikes me as unbearably cute, I squeak. Like a trapped rat. He found it charming when we were dating but now carries green foam earplugs.

But those moments of gleeful, shrieking delight are worth it all -- the dry-cleaning bills, the shame of being at a kiddie movie sans kiddies, my poor husband’s irreversible hearing damage. Because, as anyone who’s lived in this city knows, the pressure of maintaining even the most insignificant level of urban cool wears on you. In L.A., being cool means never dancing at concerts (head bobbing only, people), earnestly discussing opening weekend tallies at cocktail parties and never letting anyone who is not a professional photographer see you smile.

As SpongeBob might say, “Sometimes you’ve just got to be a goofy goober. Word.”

Liane Bonin can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.