Joe and I have been volunteer ushers at the local Performing Arts Center for five years now, last week beginning our sixth season. At the group meeting before the performance, we were handed our new name tags, in silver (versus the rookie red), signifying our years of service, and a card that says "YOU are Special". Given we're on the younger spectrum of other theater volunteers by several years, I'm glad to have that silver name tag so the older folks will stop asking me if this is my first year. I've always enjoyed being entertained, so five years ago, way back when we were in our twenties, we started this venture, working a couple of shows each month, giving up a few precious Friday or Saturday nights here and there. Now, we're hooked on the free shows and being able to see the performers warm-up before the theater opens.
Our first performance of the year was Menopause, The Musical. Each month, we are given a list of 10-12 performances and are asked to respond with our top five choices based on availability and interest. Given September is a relatively light month, this "hilarious celebration of women and The Change", was on our short list...and, as luck would have it, we were assigned to this show (but also Ira Glass later this month - woot!- more on that later). I'm still laughing at the look on Joe's face when I told him what this month's shows would be. First, I'm making him leave work before 7pm at night, and now he has to watch a bunch of old birds cluck around the stage singing about lady stuff.
We arrived at the show earlier than the usual call time, so after checking in, we grabbed a sandwich from the deli next door for an impromptu picnic. Sitting it in the city park across the street from the theater, we watched the bums and hobos smoke their joints and compare flea bites while we enjoyed our shared 6" turkey and a brownie. We also saw a really ugly miniature poodle. Back inside, we noted, as suspected, that 18 out of 20 of the other ushers were women.
Good lord, the noise and energy levels in that theater that night were as high as the estrogen levels...or would it be more appropriate to say inversely proportional to the estrogen levels, given the target audience. We were stationed at the orchestra level in the center aisle, which can get crowded and frenzied at times, but no more so than on a night when almost the entire audience was female and apparently friends with one another. Imagine an audience full of your crazy aunt milling about, squealing and throwing up jazz hands every time she saw someone she knew. It was wonderful.
The musical itself was funny. The singers were fantastic and the woman playing the fish out of water Iowa housewife in NYC part was an amazing comic. Admittedly, some of the humor was lost on me, given I have a few years before experiencing a hot flash, but there was a song entitled "My Thighs" set to the tune of the 1965 Mary Wells hit "My Guy" that sort of hit home. And any musical that has a woman who looks like my grandma using a phallic electronic "man substitute" as a microphone for one number can have my vote. And Joe? Loved it.
After the feathers and sequins had settled and the crowd of ladies had exited the theater, our job, as with every show, was rid the floor of the spent water bottles, programs, and ticket stubs that folks like to scatter about. Except, and thank you ladies, there was not a single piece of litter to be swept. Women are awesome. The End.
