Being here tonight makes everything worth it. The cost of the airfare and hotel, not to mention the price of the ballet ticket. Even lying to my family. It’s all worth it.
Every year when the curtains open, I get emotional. All my past, the sacrifices I’ve made, the future I might have had, comes rushing back. Tonight, it seems to have hit me harder than ever. Maybe it’s my age. I’m a year older than the principal female dancer, Meghan Furlan. I gave up my dream of a dance career a long time ago, but tonight, watching Meghan, any last remnants of hope for something different have slipped away.
Meghan is the most exquisite Cinderella. How could she not be? She’s an incredible dancer. But somehow it’s like she was made for this part. The costumes and the choreography all elevate the performance and she borders on magical.
She deserves all the accolades.
She’s magnificent.
Watching her tonight, at the peak of her career, my fingers stained with strawberry juice, everything is brought into focus. I don’t know if I’ve been fooling myself and thinking I couldstill have a career in dance if I really wanted. I could train hard, make up for the time lost and still get there. But now, a woman younger than me has reached the peak of that ballet mountain. I’m seeing years and years of training paying off.
There’s no catching up.
The last few strands of connection to the possibility of a different life have officially withered and died.
Maybe it’s partly relief I feel. I don’t have to pretend for a weekend a year that I could have been someone else.
I glance around me. Most people have left their seats during the intermission. They’ve headed to the restrooms or the bar. But I don’t want to miss a minute of being in this auditorium. I don’t like the idea of being stuck in a line and having to rush back to my seat. I want to immerse myself. I want to squeeze out every last drop of this experience.
But I need to pee.
As quickly as I can, I maneuver around people toward the restrooms. I’m not going to head to the main ones. I know that if I take the stairs at the front, usually only used by people in the boxes, there are some restrooms right there that normally have a shorter line. Nimbly, I slide through the throngs of people and get to the stairs. They’re deserted. Even though I know I’ll have enough time before the curtain comes up, even if there is a short line, my heartbeat ticks up in anticipation.
I get to the top of the stairs and the door to the ladies’ restrooms is closed. That must be a good sign. A line isn’t propping the door open. I push through the door and see just one person waiting patiently in front of me.
I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel a sense of victory. I know this theater so well, I can beat most people to the restrooms. Go me.
Wow, I’m pathetic.
There’s an attendant wiping down the sinks and tidying the piles of paper towels. She hums a little tune as she works. A few coins are placed on a plate on the side of the sinks. Her tips.
A lady comes out of one of the cubicles. It’s a woman I saw earlier from my seat when I glanced around at the boxes. She looks like a typical New York City Ballet patron. Rich. Elegant. Head-to-toe Chanel. She transfers her quilted pink bag from one arm to the other and then washes her hands. I see her register the saucer of tips.
“They should have cloth towels,” she says to the restroom worker.
“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, and smiles as if she’s just been paid a compliment.
Chanel lady doesn’t tip.
Wow. All her money and she can’t spare a little for the lady who spends her evenings in a restroom.
I use the restroom as quickly as I can, leave a five-dollar tip, and sprint back to my seat as quickly as I can.
My row is entirely empty except for two people a few seats up from me that I squeeze past on my way back to my seat, and a couple on the end on my right. Someone comes to speak to the couple on the end. They enter into a short conversation, and the couple both stand and head out. Were they given bad news? Offered a free drink or something? Why would they move? It can’t be long until the curtain comes up again.
I dismiss my thoughts and turn back to the stage, enjoying the sound of the auditorium filling up again. The ruffle of programs, the chatter of hushed voices.
It’s all so comforting.
Movement on my left catches my attention. The same person who was talking to people on the other side of me is talking to the people a few seats up. I can’t make out their conversation, but it seems animated. I face forward, so I don’t look like I’meavesdropping. And thenthatcouple stands, just as the bell is about to sound, and they leave their seats.
How strange.
I look over my shoulder and see people filing back to their seats. People making polite excuse-me faces when they try to squeeze past each other. The auditorium is looking pretty full. I glance up to the boxes. There’s the woman from the restrooms.
I smooth down my black pencil skirt that I save for important meetings and funerals. Her outfit probably costs the same as my monthly salary. Maybe my entire yearly wage.
The lights flash, indicating that the second half is about to begin, and my heart pounds. I snap my head to either side of me, and my entire row is completely empty. The five rows in front are full. I glance behind me… everywhere is full. But not my row.
