trust me, you're laughing WITH me

Welcome to Mr. Barely Legal goes to the Wizard of Oz, a play in three acts.

Act I: In Which Red Flags Go Flying and Sailing Like Ribbons Through the Air

With fabulous tickets to see the Wizard of Oz and no one to go with me, I decided to request the company of Mr. Barely Legal after having known him for all of a hot, hot second. I was introduced to him by a mutual friend (who, oddly, happens to also be the mutual friend between me and Mr. November and Mr. Whoops, though I knew both of them through other means -- sensing a pattern?) on Tuesday, and since Mr. Whoops had apparently sailed off the side of the earth in a ship with Christopher Columbus and my dignity, I extended the invite to Mr. Barely Legal. He accepted.

On Friday I texted him about coming to get me at 7. He texted back that his car was dead, and wanted to know if it would be too much trouble for me to come and pick him up. (First of all, why do people ask if it will be "too much trouble" to do something? Of course it's too much trouble, but I sure as hell can't say no, god dammit. Second, and perhaps more importantly: Why, y'all? Why didn't I know AT THIS VERY MOMENT?)

I scramble to be ready by 6:40 so I can leave midtown, get to Bartlett and get back downtown in time for the show. In case you were wondering, no, gas does not grow on trees. I thought you might be curious, after learning of the clicks I put on the old odometer just picking this kid up in the first damn place.

So I pick him up. We drive downtown. And I realize the moment we get close that I have no cash and had completely forgotten about needing money to park. I mention this. Out loud. To him. He says he has no cash, either, and I say we need to remember to stop at an ATM before we head back to the lot. And by we, I clearly mean him.

Act II: In Which I Realized Mr. Barely Legal May Have Never Been to a Cultural Event, Ever (In History)

I probably should've known from his laughter. Laughter at stuff that really just, well, was not funny. Actually, excuse me. It would've been funny for a kindergartner. Or a developmentally challenged first grader. Or, alternately, someone who had never before experienced the joy of a live stage performance. And I say that last bit sincerely, live stage performances ARE in fact, joyous, but I'm going to need for you to be a little bit more familiar with the ins and outs of them by the time you're 21.

(Are you still making fun of me for being Mrs. Robinson? Are you? Just give yourself a minute, gather your composure and keep reading. It gets better.)

Turns out Mr. Barely Legal is not entirely up on the whole idea of the Wizard of Oz. At intermission I explain to him that the people from the beginning are also the people in Oz, and that it's all just a dream. And I felt like I told him that Old Yeller gets shot in the end, and that he didn't already know. Because HOW? How do you not already know? Old Yeller gets shot, Dorothy's dreaming, the tortoise wins because the hare TAKES A NAP.

At the end of the show, he can't stop talking about the special effects. No, there was no CGI. Were there screens? With projections? Yes. And sets on wheels that moved? Check and check. Special effects. I can't make this up.

Act III: In Which the Parking Lot Attendant Gives Me Enough Ones to Shut Down Christie's Cabaret

When we first got to the Orpheum, I had to use the little girls' room. As I was standing in the horrendously long line, I noticed that right next to the bathrooms was an ATM. And Mr. Barely Legal, who was waiting for me outside, would've seen this, too. But had he slipped to get some cash while I was in the loo? No, no he had not. Instead, I got to pay a $3 ATM fee at Bank of America to get $20, a bill which would ultimately aggravate the parking lot attendant and leave me with 16 one dollar bills. Silver lining? At least they weren't quarters.



At some point in the evening, after we went back to my place for a drink, I just started giggling. Sort of uncontrollably. Church giggles. And he asked me why I was laughing and I babbled something about him not being the type I usually go for, but let's be real here. I was laughing the same exact laugh that I laughed the night that my Colombian lover regaled me for 20 entire minutes on the ins and outs of BULL FIGHTING. I laughed both times at myself, at the very absurdity of it all. It's like I'm looking in a mirror, cackling hysterically, saying, Hey! THIS IS YOUR LIFE! You are 24, you have a full-time job and two degrees and an apartment and a vehicle to get you places and you are schlepping to the burbs to pick up a kid who doesn't have a job or a car and still lives with his parents.

And all you can really do, at that point, is laugh.

But -- are you ready for this? you'll be shocked, no doubt -- he was fun to be around. So I saw him again the next day. And the next. If you're wondering what's wrong with me, you're not alone. SO AM I.

Stay tuned as the Mr. Barely Legal saga continues.


cheers,
elizabeth