While in New York, my husband wanted to see a Broadway show. Since I’m super important, I’ve already been to some Broadway shows, but since I’m also an awesome wife, I agreed to go with him to another show. (I’m such a giver.)
We got tickets to see Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in “Death of a Salesman.” Okay, he got a ticket to see Hoffmann in the play and I got a ticket to see the dreamy guy who is going to play Spiderman in the upcoming movie. Dreamy guy is also known as Andrew Garfield, which is interesting as I wanted to yell out cat calls every time I saw him. Rar!!!
He plays one of the sons, Biff, in the play, and at times he was even shirtless…talk about a show! Those scenes were worth the ridiculous price of admission although I must admit I was a little sad he wasn’t wearing spandex in the play. (Seriously, I’m pretty sure Biff Loman would have rocked out the tights.)
We headed to the theater before the show started. (Note: The word “theater” is to be announced in an uppity British accent, as that’s the way I always pronounce it.) We arrived and noticed the doors weren’t open yet.
Naturally, I looked for the VIP entrance. In St. Louis, I’m kind of a big deal, and I get to go to the theater there as a VIP. Yeah, I know. Awesome right? Being a VIP has gotten me used to the finer things in life, like private bathrooms and toilet paper that’s more than 2 ply.
I looked around for the VIP entrance and didn’t see one. I asked one of the snooty women waiting outside the door where the VIP entrance was and she looked at me as if I was crazy (as if I was the one wearing a hat and mom jeans to a Broadway show. I was smart enough to leave my mom jeans back at the hotel).
Snooty woman with poor taste in denim said there was no VIP entrance, and we all needed to go in the same doors when they opened. Um, what?
Not wanting to make a scene, I agreed to go in the same doors as everyone else (but I wasn’t happy about it). As soon as the doors opened, however, I then pushed my way to the front of the line and entered the theater first. What else was I supposed to do?
Since our tickets were super pricey, and more than the cost of our flights, I assumed we either had front row tickets, or our seats were actually on the stage, and Willy Loman himself would be dancing around us.
I headed to the front of the theater to look for our rock-star seats. I was irritated I had to wait in line with the commoners, but I felt vindicated that I would at least have VIP seating once inside the theater. (Are you reading that in the uppity British accent? You should be.)
An usher in poorly fitting pants stopped me and asked to see my ticket. Obviously this guy wasn’t familiar with the St. Louis Newlins. I showed him my ticket and he said we needed to go upstairs. Of course! How could I be so stupid? We obviously had box seats.
Duh. I felt like such a fool. I apologized to him and headed upstairs to find my special seat and (hopefully) a vodka and water. All this waiting made a girl thirsty.
We walked up what seemed to be approximately 50 steps, and found a set of more ushers. Seriously, the theater wasn’t that big. Perhaps the price of admission was so steep because the theater had to pay 100 ushers to work each show.
An usher pointed us to our seats and I told her there was some mistake. She pointed to seats in the top mezzanine, which I was pretty sure were actually located on 50th Street instead of 42nd Street. Seriously?! Our seats were all the way up there? Frickety frick!
I considered taking off my heels to begin the climb to our seats but thought better of it and hiked the trek in heels, all the while wondering which step would be the one to make me fall.
Surprisingly, I made it to our seats without incident (unless you count accidentally flashing my behind that was shoved into a pair of Spanx to the people behind me as an incident. Sadly, I do this quite regularly and don’t think this qualifies as an “incident.” I’m sure the people behind me would disagree.)
We sat there for a few minutes and then I realized I should use the restroom before the show started. Since we paid a second mortgage to come to the show, I needed to see every second of this depressing play.
I headed down to the main level and asked where the ladies room was located. I was told it was in the basement, just like every restroom in New York City.
I made my descent to the bowels of the theater and immediately found the restroom. It was conveniently located next to the bar. Because I didn’t want to be rude to the bartender, I grabbed a drink after leaving the restroom. I didn’t want to insult the man. He was already wearing a cumber bun. How much more humiliation could the guy take?
I headed to the steps, drink in hand, and began the climb. After about 5 steps, my thighs began shaking and I realized I wasn’t in the kind of shape I thought I was in (and believe me, I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m in shape at all).
After another 5 steps I realized I was short of breath. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I figured a sip of my vodka would refresh me enough to make the rest of the trip. Not so much.
I continued up what appeared to be an endless amount of steps. With each step, my thighs burned a little more, my chest heaved a little more, and my will to live died a little more. After the third flight of stairs I didn’t care if I ever returned to my seat; I just wanted the pain in my quads to subside.
I figured if I died right there of exhaustion, the heading of the news story would read something like “Death of a fat girl at Death of a Salesman.” I decided I was fine with that heading as long as it resulted in a push to install elevators in the theater. It would be my legacy. If I couldn’t traverse these horrid steps, how could anyone over the age of 65?
Just about that time I saw two women whiz past me who were clearly AARP members (and no stranger to the 4:00 dinner buffet). Neither woman had any problem walking up the mountainous steps, and neither one of them offered to help a sister out. These theater types were quite rude.
After what felt like 30 minutes of cardio, I arrived back at our seats, confident I would get a nosebleed from the change in altitude. My husband looked at me, concerned, and asked what took so long.
Naturally, I told him what anyone else would tell their husband. I said that someone choked on an M&M at the concession stand and I had to resuscitate them and then run outside to flag down an ambulance.