There I was at work, it was 5PM and time to get dressed for the opera. I had brought my clothes with me so that wouldn't have to go back home and then return to downtown. I slipped into the bathroom with my bag. As I was pulling my shirt on over my head, I realized it was rather tight. Alas, I didn't think I had gained that much weight recently, but the truth was plain to see. Buttons were strained. It was one of my favorite shirts, lavender silk with long French cuffs, a true reliable choice, but now rather uncomfortable. I stepped out of the bathroom, gathered my things from the office and walked across the street to my car. If I just hunch my shoulders forward and don't breathe, I can make this work. It will work.
Half way through the downtown traffic, and my buttons are popping with every breath. It was at this point that I realized that my cuffs used to fall at the knuckles of my hand but now are hitting above the wrist. This is not weight gain! The dry cleaners shrunk my favorite blouse! Oh the humanity! I can't sit through three hours of Handel like this, hunched over and oxygen deprived! Wear the ratty old t-shirt I had been wearing at work or.... Detour to 6th and Pine.
I pulled into the Park Place garage and made my way to the third floor of Nordstrom's. There were at least four employees in the area doing inventory or something. But for once, not one of them approached me and asked if I needed help. They all were looking at me surreptitiously like I was about to shoplift something or like I wasn't able to afford anything in the store in the first place. I mean after all, here I am a hunched over woman slinking between display racks mumbling to myself, with a furtive desperation in my eyes, blouse popping open at the slightest move, seams about to burst. Not a pretty picture.
I found two candidates for purchase, but wasn't sure they would work with black velvet pants. So I approached a clerk and asked for help. She took me to a dressing room and I tried on the first one, a blouse with an oriental pattern reminiscent of 1920s Chinoiserie. It reminded me of something that Karen Snyder would wear. It was a two-piece item. The shell underneath was too big and all, falling off my shoulders. But the outer blouse looked fine and as long as I just hitched the shell waaay back on my shoulders, who would know? The Sales Lady assured me that for a quick fix it was actually not all that bad and I could tailor it in later. Good enough for now. Could I pull it off? Could I be the Snyder? No, not me. This blouse was far and away beyond anything I'd normally buy. But it fit (kinda), it was on sale, and I was desperate. 6:00PM and I am so far behind schedule. I've got to get out of here fast, and find something for dinner.
I stepped out of the dressing room, tags hanging off the sleeve and marched with purpose towards the cash register. Sales ladies were looking at me like I might just bolt out of there with impunity. There was a man in his late 50s, early 60s waiting on his wife. Every time I passed by him, he just gave me this confused, scared look. I found the sales lady who was helping me and said in a loudish voice: "I'm on my way to the opera and the dry cleaner shrank my shirt!" It was at this point that all the sales ladies immediately mobbed me and began offering sympathy, advice on how to accessorize, and consolation. One of them cut off the tags, another rang up the bill, a third went for accessories downstairs. The poor man whose wife was still in the dressing room slowly edged away from the mob scene and hid in a corner.
FLASHBACK: No accessories for me! 7:15 AM Shove necklace and earrings into a pants pocket because I'm too rushed to just put them on. 9:30AM Stick hand in pocket. There are the earrings. No necklace! Walk to car to see if it fell out on the way to the office, not there. Stick hands in car seat and underneath to see if it's there. No necklace. Walk back to Starbucks to see if someone turned it in there. No necklace. Call daycare to see if someone turned it in there. No NECKLACE! Alas, it was one of my favorites! Return to Occidental park and offer homeless people $20 for the return of my necklace. No joy in Mudville. No necklace in park.
Meanwhile, back at Nordstroms: Any hope of a quick get away was shot. I finally made it out of there, stopped at Il Fornaio's take-out deli and grabbed a pasta & chicken salad. It's not that long of a drive. I can eat in my car when I get to the opera house. At last I felt back in control. No more wardrobe failures, no more popping buttons, no more paranoia and discomfort, and I had carbohydrates in hand.
6:30 PM I drive to the Seattle Center and try to park. It was at this point that I realized I had about $2.50 in cash and it was not enough to park in the garage. So I start circling the streets around the Opera House area, desperately seeking salvation from my folly. Somewhere in my wanderings a song began to go through my mind. "I am at the opera, I do not like opera, but he loves opera and I love him." It's from a favorite album called "Buy Me, Bring Me Take Me, Don't Touch My Hair: Life According To Four Bitchin Babes" Only problem is that I like opera, and there no "he" involved because the "he" in question is at home with the heir apparent having a boys' night in so that I can go out and relax. It's a great song, the only one I know of that can get away with a line like "sucking down a bucket full of tentacled slime" and still manage to be culturally relevant and literary. So there I am in the car humming to myself about tentacled slime wandering the high ways and by ways of lower Queen Anne.
I am now in Project Management mode—micro-manage each task before contemplating the implications too deeply. I circle, I dodge, I weave. I move with the flow and seek anything that may be, just maybe construed as a legal spot. No joy... It's approaching 7PM and I'm truly beyond help at this point. I open up the pasta and chicken salad and begin nibbling noodles from the edge of the container while driving with one hand. I think I'll have to park six blocks up on Queen Anne, hike down to the opera house and get drenched in the process. Six noodles in, I turn from Mercer onto 2nd Ave and pause to let a father and daughter cross the road. It's a MIRACLE! They approach a car, and I go into stalker mode. I make an illegal u-turn and bump up over the curb, pull forward just enough to block the adjacent alley, because I am not taking any chances at this juncture. Who's the cat? I'm the cat, be the cat, wait for it, wait for it, now pounce! As soon as they pull away I'm in the park space and out of the car. You see, because it was at this point that I thought to check my tickets and make sure that I had the right night and the right tickets with me. I had locked my purse in the trunk and didn't have access to the tickets to check them until I pulled over. A certain level of psychosis has set in.
7:08 and I've made it! Half a block to Handel's Julius Caesar and I still have plenty of time to snarf my pasta salad and get to my seat. It was at this point that the "after work" drink with co-workers manifested itself (and all that that implies...)
FLASHBACK: 4PM Pioneer Square, Zeitgeist Coffee Shop, venti espresso so I can stay awake through the opera...
I eat two more noodles, one piece of chicken, one strip of sun-dried tomato, and shut the lid. Gotta go...
Catholic School girl training kicks in. Control, speed, and efficiency of movement are key to making your way through a throng of elderly opera goers without sending too many of them to hospital. I get through the ticket line, greet the elderly gentleman at the top of the staircase. (He is greeting everyone who comes up the stairs, looking very much like he's the conductor emeritus, or at least someone whom one ought to recognize.) I head toward the bathroom... and there's a line. Of course, there's a line. There's always a line.
I step out of the bathroom having adjusted (for the fourth time) the dark black under-shell type thingy under my blouse. Did I mention that the actual blouse/outer cover is gauzy and therefore see-through? Oh Yes. I did pick one of those. But it was so Washington DC Cherry Blossom Festival in appearance, with pagodas and such.
I get to my seat, 3 minutes to spare. The music starts, the curtain rises, polite applause is given. At last I felt back in control. No more wardrobe failures, no more bursting bladders, no more paranoia and discomfort, and (alas) no more carbohydrates in hand. But I'm here. Relaxing. Watching as the Playskool Pyramids emerge from behind a curtain. The curtain and the back wall are covered in squiggles. I can't tell if it's supposed to simulate Hieratic or waves on the Med as Alexandria is a seaside town. And... Caesar is a girl. WHAT? No really, Caesar steps on stage and He is a She, and She's shorter than that other girl that's playing a teenage boy. WHAT is up with that? And the pyramids are just not doing it for me. But the music is awesome and beautiful. I do love Handel. So I close my eyes and the Hieratic waves stop making me nauseous. The worst is over. I have survived the commute. I am here. Relaxing. Trying to not fall asleep in spite of the espresso.
But wait, there's more. You can dress me up, but DO NOT let me out in public. It's not a good thing.
The first Act is done and the curtain falls, the lights come up and my shell, the one that was supposed to keep me from flashing the entire Seattle Opera-going public, has gone all Southern Exposure and started a naval campaign of its own. It's not just shifted downward a centimeter or two. It's fallen off my shoulders and the strap is at my elbow on one side. And of course, the shell is black and my undergarment of record is white... making it all the more visible. I hike up the shell, apologize to the polite elderly Japanese couple next to me and head out in search of carbohydrates. But I only have $2.50 with me, and the line is long. "One cup of mint tea please." And the bell rings, back to my seat, having had a total of two sips of tea.
I sit down, the Japanese neighbor and her husband come along. I move aside, look down, hike up the shell again, and say (as a lame attempt to cover embarrassment with polite conversation) "There's several empty seats next to me. You can put your coat there if you like." Her response: "You know, keeping your coat on hand can compensate for a multitude of issues..." The lights go down.
Now the first aria of Act II of Julius Caesar is text book Handel. I could have sworn some of the musical lines were from the Messiah or very close. It all just sounded so familiar. But the shell is sinking, Lady Caesar is singing, and I am just trying to stay decent. All in all, I really did enjoy the opera much more than I expected. Acts II and III were a constant battle to keep the "quick fix, don't worry it's not THAT loose" shell from displaying décolletage at an excessive rate.
The Opera is over, I go to the car. The pasta salad beckons. But it's not that long of a drive home. I can wait...
I arrive home at about 11:15PM, am pawed by the dog in the usual fashion, and stagger into the kitchen. Kevin comes down the stairs.
Kevin: How was the opera?
Sharon: It was great. Caesar was a very short woman.
Kevin: I don't think I've seen that blouse before. It's nice, is it new?
Sharon: Yes, it's a long story.
Kevin: Do you realize it's see-through?
Sharon: Yes, it's a long story. Now, if you don't mind, I'd really like a moment
alone with my carbohydrates.
PS: My necklace is still missing. If you find it, I'll go downstairs, across the street and give $20 to a homeless person in your honor.