In what now seems like just a blink of an eye, The Good Book of Pedantry and Wonder is off the ground! And it was an amazing opening night. The audience loved it, the actors had fun, the Boston Court and Circle X staffers looked gorgeous, and I learned what an endive is!
I’m getting ahead of myself. First, a little background on what opening nights are at Boston Court: we like to welcome our plays into the world with a night full of fun, festivities and free food. We kicked things off with a band playing in the lobby as the audience poured in and mingled before the show, looking particularly classy in dressy clothes. Then staff from both companies got to watch the show, as well as reviewers, family and friends of the cast and crew, and special members of the extended Boston Court and Circle X families. After the performance, everyone got to enjoy enough food for several armies, lovingly prepared and laid out by Meg, our Events Manager, and her team of helpers, of which I was lucky to be a part!
If you’ve been reading my blog entries you may have deciphered my dislike for summer, the lazy dullness of it, the total predictability. I love Spring, I adore Winter, I even like Fall. These are seasons in which I get things done. Summer, though, usually passes agonizingly slowly and with nothing whatsoever to show for the passed time other than a glazed-over look in my eyes by mid-July. Not so this summer. We put on a play, and it’s fantastically well-loved, and we held a party and made quite a lot of food.
Yes, I’ve been told that I’m doing something wrong and not exactly enjoying my youth to the fullest. This does bother me, but the problem is, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing—or rather it doesn’t appeal. I realize that by this point I probably ought to have a fake ID and should be working the LA club scene until I’m forced to call a cab at dawn. The problem is, 40-year-old investment bankers in lift shoes have never held much appeal for me, so there’s not much reason to go out. And I know that were I to actually make it to a club somewhere, I wouldn’t be sweating my mascara off in a throng of half-clothed dancers like I should; instead, I’d be chewing the ice at the bottom of a Diet Coke while thinking about how much I could be learning if I’d stayed home to read a book. Disgustingly earnest, I know.
And yet when I stay home, very little reading goes on. Mostly Friday and Saturday nights are spent watching some movie I’ve already seen and fretting about my wasted youth in phrases seemingly stolen from Cosmopolitan Magazine (“This is about as good as my abs are ever going to get” or “Wrinkles are approaching, it’s all downhill from here” or “You know that half of all women are married by 23?”). During the school year this is actively battled back with a steady diet of Women’s Studies classes and NOW chapter meetings, so that by Friday night anyone who invites me to a frat party will not only get a “no” but also a speech on degradation at the hands of the male-dominated, cheap-beer-fueled party scene. I know I sound like a bit of a caricature of a college feminist, but so many of the guys take it to a new level with their Frat Guy caricatures that this becomes the only possible self-defense, at least for the four-year duration.
So there you have it: the long and short of how my last wrinkle-free years were wasted on cross-stitching a pillowcase in the suburbs and staying up only to catch SNL reruns. At this point I don’t think I need to tell you how amazing it felt to have an opening night party to go to at the theatre—an excuse to dress up, where nobody tried to ply me with Busch Lite, sophisticated live music played, and as the cherry on top, the floor wasn’t even sticky! It was fantastically heartening, a glowing indication that college maybe doesn’t have to be the best time of my life, that I don’t have to be a sorority girl with the tolerance of a 300-pound Irishman to enjoy parties. I guess I’m more of a Boston Court Opening Night kind of girl, which works for me. After all, if I went all Cosmo and married a Frat Star by twenty-three, I think we all know I’d be divorced by twenty-four. Yeah, I’ll stick to live theatre and stuffed endives.