I Believe

The Book of Mormon.

A title which here means: A hilarious show about Mormon missionaries marching off to Africa with disastrous results.  Winner of nine Tony awards, it’s a quite a big deal within the musical theater circuit.  Yes, yes. *politely sips brandy, whilst wearing a smoking jacket*

Last time it toured Atlanta I missed it because:  Poor!  Frightened!  Alone!  Excuses!

But not this time!  Because this year?  This year I do what I want.  Within my budget.

I left for Atlanta on a bright Sunday morning.  I wore Oxford shoes and red lipstick.  I bought a sausage-egg-and-cheese McMuffin and a small caramel frappe (with no whip cream), and subsequently ate my lipstick.  Whilst eating, I managed to trap sausage in my sideways wisdom tooth, and soon realized: I forgot to bring dental floss.

Dental floss is serious business.  In v. desperate times, I fish an old piece out from my floorboard.  If you’re not judging me for that sentence, I will.

However, Charlie was recently cleansed of his impurities at the local car wash – and thus, no floor floss to be found.  Tragic.

Not wanting to spend the day without dental floss, I stopped at the local gas station for provisions.  All that was available were those dippy little flossers, which are useful for everything but compacted wisdom teeth.

I bought them anyway.  As I stood in line, the old man before me bought six Powerball tickets, as if six is just enough to make a significant dent to the probability.  Sloth-like, the cashier catered to his purchase as my precious arrival time ticked away.

Whittling out the offending piece of meat, it was three days later I realized I had a spool of dental floss in my car’s console the entire time.  Classic Rachel. *wink*

As I had already sacrificed time forgetting I had dental floss and then buying replenishments, I didn’t have time to waste for trivial things such as urination.  Other than twenty-six ounces worth of water and my small caramel frappe [with no whip cream], my bladder was as empty as the tomb.

On many occasions, I claim to be an intelligent female.  This was not one of those occasions.

Two hours later, I was amidst Sunday Atlanta traffic and cradling a full bladder; to quote The Fray, “I found God.”

Back when I drove Severus, [1998 Subaru Legacy, R.I.P.], his steering wheel would shake should I go over sixty.  Therefore I avoid it, as old habits die hard.  However, unless you choose to be run over – or rather, need to get to your destination in enough time to visit the loo – you drive fast.  Going a frightening 80mph, people were passing me.

Look at your life!  Look at your choices!  Look at that police car!

After witnessing the game of “What are Road Rules?,” I finally reached the pearly gates of the exit ramp with ten minutes to spare.  The Sacred Flaming Peanut – or the Olympic Torch that 15-year-old me thought was a flaming peanut – beacon of hope, beckoned me to victory.  Until I came to a stop.

Back-to-back traffic on the exit ramp, the Sacred Flaming Peanut mocked me as minutes ticked by.  Glacially, I approached the parking garage.  Parking, I sprinted, bladder jangling within, praising Jesus that I chose to wear Oxfords instead of heels.  I’m a practical lady.

Reaching the atrium, a man screamed out, “2 minutes till curtain.”

Stop.

16-years-old, seeing Cats: The Musical.  Ten minutes late, I missed ten valuable minutes of humans dressed in bodysuits and artificial hair.  To this very day, I have regretted this, despite the fact that the show was Cats, and therefore, I missed nothing.

Go.

I ran, not to the toilets, but to the Dress Circle, latent asthma burning my lungs, and ushered  into my seat, I sat alone in a sea of middle-age women, i.e. the idea Book of Mormon crowd.  Crossing my legs, I sat for the entirety of the first act, my needs vanquished by the magic of le théâtre.

I relieved myself during intermission.  That’s it.  That’s the anti-climatic end to my tale.

If you would like a better conclusion, I had time afterwards to buy a magnet for my [heavy breathing] magnet collection.

I can never properly review a show – unless it’s performed by high schoolers, and then I’ll lambast it online and at bonfires – because it’s something you have to *~experience~* for yourself.  So in a word: it was delightful.  Despite being excellent, Evita continues to hold the title of my most favourite musical I’ve ever seen.  Perhaps it’s because, in my free time, I like to pretend I’m a Latina woman from the 1930s.

After simultaneously laughing and feeling mortified for two hours, I ate at a swank little Italian place.  Namely because it was between the parking garage and the theatre.  Seeing as, when I came to Atlanta for Cats, I witnessed a hit and run, I’m not overtly fond of trekking through cities.

I sat at the pizza bar and was ignored by the Most Gorgeous Waiter (MGW).  Womp, womp.  But I tipped him anyway because if anyone wants a slice of Rachel Pie, it’s a waiter, amirite?

Just kidding, no one wants a slice of Rachel Pie.  Except for Matt, who continues to be the nicest-guy-in-town and dates me even though I’m a swamp monster.  And that one guy Jeff.

MGW asked me if I wanted desert, and I purred,  “well, my calves can only get fatter*,”:

*The original statement was, in my true, innocently awkward fashion, “well, my thighs can only get wider.” I soon realized this has too many unfortunate implications, so let’s pretend I gain weight in my calves!  Okay, bye.

As I ate this decadent cake thing, and felt it insulate my thighs and hips, I reflected on my trip to Atlanta.  Although it wasn’t much of a trip for a normal adult who doesn’t still wear matching pajamas [they make me feel put together, okay.], it was an accomplishment for me.  I drove somewhere I have never driven before, planned the trip in it’s entirety, and conquered some internal fears.  And namely, I did what I wanted.

Leaving the restaurant, on my way back to my car, as empowerment and independence coursed through my veins, a homeless man asked me for a meal.

And I ran away.

I’m afraid of hairballs and raw meat, how do you think I feel about stranger danger?!

I’ve learnt nothing.

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Curmudgeonly cat lady living in the mountains of North Carolina. Occasional artist, former thespian, unwitting mathematician, constant explorer. Collects hobbies and drinks tea.

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