Except for writing, I have a total lack of culture or artistic interests/abilities. In a prior post I already admitted my lack of art appreciation by dissing the Russian masters.
Now let's talk OPERA. I always looked at opera the same way I view cauliflower: I don't have to try it to know I don't like it. Even so, a physician I worked with convinced me to take my wife to see The Magic Flute.
"It's fantastic," he said.
"Cindy will love it."
"It's a great opera for people who don't like opera."
He said all kinds of things that turned out to be lies.
Anyway, I ponied up and took out a 2nd mortgage to buy the tickets. Cindy and I dressed up for the occasion. I wore a suit and tie, per physician instructions. We went. We hobnobbed with the la-ti-das in our community and took our seats in the balcony of a beautiful theater. We were not overdressed.
Then the performance began.
It went on and on forever.
I yawned.
I squirmed in my seat.
I stretched and scratched my belly.
I looked at my watch. Five minutes had passed.
I realized I was in for a long evening, but I had paid a boatload of money for the tickets, and Cindy seemed totally absorbed in the silliness down below. I could have tightroped along the balcony naked in all my glory, and she wouldn’t have noticed. I wasn’t going to ruin her evening; I would somehow get through this.
I had just finished counting all the patrons who had had plastic surgery—one hundred twenty-four--and was considering taking off my shoes and socks to enjoy a foot massage when the first intermission arrived. I looked at Cindy and tried to smile. It must not have been convincing, because she looked concerned.
She felt my forehead. "Want to leave?"
I didn’t answer, exactly; I did what a dog does when you ask if it wants to go outside. I sprinted to the balcony door and did a happy dance. I suppose, in a way, it was an answer after all.
And thus endeth my experience with opera. And for those who are counting, I have tried opera one more time than cauliflower.
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