I’ve forked over $8.75 for a ticket.

My giant bucket of popcorn is sufficiently soaked in butter, and my bladder-busting soft drink is perfectly chilled.

The theater has stadium seating, digital sound and rocking chairs with those groovy adjustable armrests.

So why am I in misery instead of cinematic bliss?

Reason: My husband.

My husband, Adam, and I are movie people — he moreso than I. He’s one of those people who can tell you who won the Best Actor Oscar six years ago (Adrien Brody for “The Pianist”) and he sort of worships Martin Scorcese. Yeah, he’s a little pretentious. But he knows his stuff.

There’s more: Our wedding reception was movie-themed. Seriously. We had it in a renovated 1920s-era movie theater, and posters of us lined a red carpet outside. Each table was named for one of our favorite movies, and included “Caddyshack” (for him), “Gone with the Wind” (for me) and “Old School” (for both ... “You’re my boy, Blue!”). Packages of Milk Duds and Junior Mints went home as favors. Only movie music played. You get the idea.

Together, Adam and I own more than 400 DVDs. We’ve outgrown every entertainment center we’ve owned. Right now, some of our DVDs are in shoeboxes, and the poor Walmart shelves holding the hundreds of movies we have look like they could snap at any moment.

So I think it’s safe to say we like movies just a little bit more than normal people. Sane people.

But about this time each year, Adam and I make a second home for ourselves at Sea Turtle Cinemas. One, because it’s too chilly to do much else, and two, because it’s Oscar season.

We set out to see the movies generating trophy buzz so we can make educated statements about who should win. We like to pretend we’re Carroll and Carroll, the best movie critic duo since Siskel and Ebert. If only we had an audience and a paycheck ...

Thanks to determination and frivolous spending, we managed to see all the big movies ahead of this week’s Academy Awards ceremony. It was fun, mostly.

But a disturbing trend emerged during our frequent theater visits — a trend that has tainted my movie-viewing experience forever, a trend that’s annoying and unstoppable, a trend that sends my eyes straight to the back of my head. People don’t shut their mouths when they’re at the movies, and it creates an Incredible Hulk-like effect in my husband.

Instead of turning green and yelling “Hulk SMASH!” while running down the aisles (which would be more hilarious than scary), Adam’s irritation manifests itself in annoyed sighs, blatant stares at the talking perps and complaints to the person next to him (which is, ahem, me).

While I, too, wish people would stop yapping at the movie theater, I have the ability to block it out and enjoy the film. Adam can’t do this, and chooses to talk to me. About his frustration. During the movie. He, who despises talking during movies, finds it acceptable to talk to me about the talking.

Not cool.

So local moviegoers, please do me a favor: The next time you’re at Sea Turtle, please don’t flap your jaws during the movie. You’ll make my husband happy, and I’ll get to hear the movie. If you do talk, beware the wrath of my spouse. You won’t like him when he’s angry.