Monday night I went to the theatre alone.
It’s not unusual for me to go to the theatre; after all, my role as a theatre critic allows me access to opening night of many productions around the city, often more than one person could physically attend. But it was unusual for me to go alone. My husband and typical plus-one, exhausted from a weekend of home improvement with my in-laws, opted to stay home, and none of my theatre-going friends were available.
Going alone brought into stark relief something I’ve become more and more aware of as I’ve slowly emerged and re-emerged into the world as COVID numbers waver up and down: the logistics of attending a performance. After wrapping up work at 5pm, I took the following steps in the following order to make it to the theatre ready to watch the show:
Agonize over where to eat (the empanada place a coworker recommended)
Navigate to the empanada place (I am terrible with directions)
Decide what to order from the empanada place (I am terrible with decisions)
Hover awkwardly while I wait for my empanadas to be ready (it probably wasn’t that awkward, but I have raging social anxiety)
Decide where to eat my empanadas (my car, as the restaurant had no seating)
Decide how to eat my empanadas (twisted awkwardly so I could use the console as a kind of precarious table)
Decide what to do about the fact that I left my water bottle at work (dehydrate)
Get a phone call from the restaurant that I left my credit card there (shit)
Return to the restaurant so I can reclaim my credit card (embarrassing)
Decide to buy a soda while I’m in there to avoid dehydrating (also, somehow, embarrassing)
Finish my empanadas in the car, now with Diet Dr. Pepper (yum)
Remember that I get a discount if I pay for parking in advance (hell yeah)
Pay for parking on my phone (I’m like 80% sure I did it right)
Start navigating to the theatre (to the soundtrack of the Jonas Brothers)
Remember that I actually need to navigate to the parking garage (it’s close by, but I’ll probably find a way to get lost--see: previous parenthetical on sense of direction, lack thereof)
Wait for a red light and change my destination (hope that I did it correctly, since I searched the name of the garage instead of copy-pasting the address)
Remember that driving downtown gives me anxiety (not sure how I keep forgetting this)
Remember that thing about not copy-pasting the address (what if I’m going to the wrong place by accident and have to re-navigate and end up being late to the show and they won’t let me in?)
Wait for a red light and copy-paste the address (my directions do not change. I was going to the correct place to begin with)
Miss the parking garage (oops)
Circle around the block and return to the parking garage (got it this time)
Pull up my parking pass on my phone, scan it to get let in (remember to turn up my phone brightness all the way so the scanner can read it)
Navigate a goddamn city parking garage (am I going to hit the wall? That car? A pole? A pedestrian? So many things to narrowly avoid hitting!)
Take a picture of the signs near where I parked so I can remember it later (I will not, otherwise, remember it later)
Begin navigating from my parking space to the theatre (I have parked here so many times before and will park here so many times again; why does my sieve of a memory always leak out the very basic steps between the exit door of the garage and the front door of the theatre?)
Pull up walking directions on my phone just in case (turn off volume and try to glance subtly at phone to avoid looking like a tourist/general dork)
Reach the theatre (hooray)
Fish my mask out of my purse and put it on (safety first, etc.)
Pull up a photo of my vaccine card on my phone and pull my driver’s license out of my wallet (to show to the poor person stuck checking both at the door)
Stop by the press table to say hi (and snag a few Hershey’s kisses)
Weave my way through the crowd to get to the women’s room (at least I a. know where it is and b. don’t have to worry about which bathroom to use as a cis woman)
Use the bathroom, wash my hands (sing the chorus to Beyonce’s “Love on Top” in my head to ensure it’s been the CDC-recommended 20 seconds)
Realize my purse is open and zip it shut (one time I got robbed while at the theatre with an unzipped purse)
Locate my digital ticket in my email (why do I have so many emails!?)
Locate the correct entrance for my seat (luckily the ticket says which aisle to go to)
Wait in line for my ticket to be scanned (feel bad for usher whose scanner isn’t working)
Receive my program and find my seat (I am seated alone in a bank of three seats, which isn’t the worst thing for a fat girl)
Entertain myself until curtain (through a mix of texting, browsing Twitter, and flipping through my program)
After all that, the show sucked. For my detailed thoughts on why it sucked, check out my review. As I repeated many of the steps on my list in reverse, I was left to wonder why I was so bothered by everything it had taken to get my butt in a seat to watch a show. Maybe it was a pandemic side effect: after two years of mostly sitting on my couch, moving through the world and interacting with other people felt overwhelming. Maybe going to the theatre has always been kind of annoying, but, like I’m told is true of pregnancy and childbirth, the happy outcome is worth all the suffering, an effect I didn’t experience with this sucky play. Or maybe I’m just getting older, and more tired, and less inclined to pour my time and effort and energy into any show that comes along just because the tickets are free.
Regardless, I left the play with more than a general sense of disappointment that the show hadn’t lived up to expectations. I left feeling almost disrespected, as though my time had been deliberately wasted. I’m sure the folks who worked on the show weren’t intending to have that effect; I’m sure they thought they were putting on a fine performance. So I’m left to wonder how exactly anyone is supposed to know whether a given show is worth all the time and effort it takes to attend.
And then I remember: the answer is me. I’m the theatre critic. I’m supposed to tell the masses not just what’s worth their money to attend, but what’s worth their precious time and energy. In light of my sudden awareness of the small irritants of going to see a play, that role feels all the more important, all the more urgent, maybe even sacred.
Monday night I went to the theatre alone. I didn’t like the play I saw, but the experience of going taught me something about myself. And maybe that alone is worth leaving the house for.