One rainy Seattle afternoon, I decided that I would invest in some symphony tickets. I got a little carried away and maybe ordered a few more than I initially intended, but I usually don’t struggle with talking myself into purchases.
Yesterday marked the first concert that I had bought tickets to. It was a welcome treat after working a 19 day stint. I feel one should dress up at least a little bit for the symphony, so I pulled myself out of my sweatpants from my Project Runway marathon, put on some makeup, threw on a dress with some killer shoes and called it a day.
I was proud of how I pulled myself together so quickly, though I always feel weird going to something so seemingly classy.
I’m not the classiest of ladies. I tend to feel awkward and uncomfortable in respectable situations as I tend to say whatever comes into my brain and swear like a sailor. So it may seem out of sorts that I actually love going to the symphony.
I got gussied up and walked toward the bus stop, because even though I bought symphony tickets, I still take the bus as much as humanly possible to save extra cash here and there.
There is a gate at the side entrance of my apartment that I usually take because it’s closer to my individual unit. They’ve decided to build a bar underneath my apartment complex, so they have also added a Porta Potty right beside my little back entrance for the construction workers. While it is an eyesore, I know it’s temporary, and all part of living in an area of the city that is being built up.
So I slammed the gate behind me to make sure it locked, when suddenly a gust of wind picked up, disheveling me and my oh-so-put-together look. I smoothed down my skirt as I rounded the Port-O-Let corner to make sure my guise as a classy woman wasn’t immediately given up by flashing everyone on the street three seconds after walking out the door.
I turned the corner and nearly ran into a man who looked rough, with scabs all over his face and ripped clothing. I jumped into the air, apologizing for almost knocking him down, and adrenaline coursing through me because of nearly running into someone who looked mildly terrifying.
He apologized, and then looked at me, saying, “Wait, is that toilet for everyone? Is this open to the public? Sweet!”
I looked around frantically, praying that someone would magically appear in front of him. Surely he wasn’t asking dress-wearing, symphony-going me about the status of the toilet? Was it because I smoothed down my skirt he thought I came out of the bathroom?
I shook my head in disappointment as the transient ran with excitement into the freestanding toilet, thinking “This is why you don’t do nice things…even transients think that you, all dressed up and wearing a full face of makeup, were coming out of the Porta Potty rather than the apartment building behind it.”
I sat on the bus, sighing to myself as I wondered if the gentleman in front of me had just shit his pants or let a ripe fart get away from him. I was perhaps not intended for nice things at all. I should have just stayed at home in my sweats binge watching tv. That was where I belonged.
I got off of the bus and hopped in line to pick up my tickets, hoping I didn’t smell like bus and transient. When it was my turn to grab my tickets, I sheepishly spelled my last name a second time as she scavenged the box again for me as the “Lauck” tickets seemed to have been displaced. I started to panic, thinking this was a typical end to a ridiculous string of events, and I felt the pressure of the growing line behind me getting ready to call me out as an impostor.
That’s when she checked a different folder and pulled out a fancy envelope and said, “Oh here you are, a season ticket holder,” with a huge smile, then proceeded to thank me.
I wondered as she handed me a huge envelope if she had misunderstood the spelling of my name. I looked down only to see my name printed on the front. Apparently I had bought so many tickets in my moment of boredom, I had secured myself a place as a “season ticket holder” for the symphony.
I smiled as I walked toward entrance, where the woman scanned my ticket and it beeped at her. She said that I needed to stop at the table in the corner before going into the venue. I sighed. I knew that it was too good to be true. I walked up and the woman greeted me by name, thanked me for being a member, and gave me free drink vouchers.
I couldn’t believe I had accidentally secured a place as a Seattle Symphony season ticket holder and was getting all of the perks as well. It was my Cinderella moment it seemed, where suddenly I fit into the symphony. After all, I do know a bit about classical music myself, and I was dressed the part as well.
I took my seat, watched a fantastic performance of Berlioz, Sibelius (a violin melody so poignantly executed at the beginning that quieted the audience to a point you could hear a pin drop and gave me chills), and Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony.
I walked out the door and ran to the bus before it took off without me. I left with a full heart and feeling that perhaps it’s possible for me to exist in this world of nice things in small doses. There will always be transients waiting to strike up conversations with me once I exit the world of classy things and step back out into the real world. But it’s nice to get to go to the ball every once in a while.