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.”
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.
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.