On Tuesday, I went into the city for dinner and a show with Kerri, my sis, and my bro-in-law. I bought the tickets for Six at my mother’s urging—she is pretty hip for an 80-year-old and had seen it at the American Repertory Theater (ART) in Cambridge a while back. (ART is a place where shows often cut their chops pre-Broadway, so my mom often has an early look into what’s up and coming—Six and Waitress come to mind. I’m telling you, my mom has it going on.)
Anyhow, I delayed getting tickets (tough time of year to commit) and finally bit when I got a promo code emailed to me in late October, at which time I made the split-second decision to invite my sis and b-i-l, an offer they accepted immediately. The 6th was free, so Six on the sixth it was. As the date got closer, I did what I do best when I “own” this kind of plan—I panicked. Sure it was “my” plan, but as I thought about it, I had no freakin’ idea what the show was about. Would we like it? Would it be a bust? Oh my God, where are we going to eat before the show? Where will we park?
So.
Many.
Questions.
Here we go.
I found myself, for no external reason whatsoever, with all the pressure of the world on me—the success of the night was my responsibility.
It wasn’t, truth told.
I knew that.
But still, that’s how I felt.
So that was my reality.
Sigh.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Sigh.
Breathe.
“It’s for fun,” I reminded myself, trying to be convincing but sounding more skeptical...
After a lot of Yelp and Google review reading and mapping and calculating distance and walking time to figure out (needless to say, my self-diagnosed LIAD, Logistics Induced Anxiety Disorder, was in full-flare) where we could eat that would a) give us a reservation, b) hopefully be decent, and c) be located such that we could park, eat, and get to the show in a tight two-hour after work window (for them, not me), I settled on a place called Stillwater. I had a slight hiccup of angst booking the reservation—what? You need a credit card? We’ll be charged if we cancel? Jesus. I communicated my reservation reservations to my sister who gently counseled that if we needed to cancel we’d have much bigger issues than a cancellation fee. Good point. The show was only a few days away—we were going, and we were going to eat out before. If something happened to change that, it would have to be something catastrophic (and thus unlikely).
“Just make the reservation,” I told myself. And I did. For 5:30—the absolute earliest we could get there and the absolute latest we could eat and make it to the show on time. Some people call that a sweet spot—I call it the height of anxiety. But anyway…
My sister was picking me up to drive in from the ’burbs. She asked if I had a plan for parking and when I said that I had done some inconclusive SpotHero investigation she made the executive decision to park at the garage near b-i-l’s work. An 11-minute walk to dinner and an evening rate of $9—big win! I shot that info off to Kerri…and did not hear back. So now I was worried about dinner (being on time, would the place be good, etc.—remember, the success of the night was all on me 🤦♀️), the show (essentially the same worries as dinner 🤦♀️), and whether Kerri would find us (she’s a grown up and she knew all the details so of course she’d be there, but still… 🤦♀️). Waze had us arriving at the garage at 5:17, so I knew we’d be ok with timing. And then I got a text from Kerri—her ETA at the same garage was 5:14.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
It’s all going to be great.
And it was.
Within 10 minutes, the four of us were happily united at Level 1 of the garage, b-i-l stowed his work bag, and off we went, arriving at the restaurant at 5:31.
The place was packed—a good sign and also good that I “insisted” on finding a place that took reservations. No wait. Tasty bevs. Great meal. Lots of laughs…there’s something special about the festive evening energy of the city…though as it got closer to 7 with no sign of dessert or the check, I started to panic (again).
But all’s well that ends well and we slid into our very decent seats just after 7:20.
While Act 1 (dinner) ended well, we still had Act II to deal with, the small matter of the show itself. When I was asked over dinner what it was about and didn’t know, I once again (for no real or valid reason) felt the pressure of responsibility for other people's enjoyment. Which, I realize as I type it, is utterly ridiculous. I was out with 3 of the most fun-loving, easy-going, laid-back, supportive people you can imagine…I knew my worry was unwarranted yet there it was…and then I found myself getting frustrated with myself for letting this invented pressure and needless worry cause me so much angst! (It’s a vicious cycle!)
(“What the hell kind of feel-good Friday story is this?” you’re probably wondering. “Patience, grasshopper,” I reply.)
“Relax,” I told myself.
“Enjoy,” I ordered myself. 🤣🤣🤣
We were all out together. We were having so much fun. The dinner and the show were the point of the evening, but at the same time they weren’t. I was annoyed with myself that it took me that long to have that liberating realization, but at least it hadn’t come too late. As the curtain rose and the first note sounded, I remembered the very important notion of separation of tasks, and focused squarely on my task—enjoying the show. I wanted them to enjoy it too, but that was on them, not on me.
(As an aside, ICYMI, I have written about “separation of tasks” here at least twice, most recently here, and first here. You can follow the links if you want to catch up on what that’s all about. It’s a concept that has helped me a good bit, but I’m still working on it.)
The show was great. While I’m not sure how much of it was historically accurate, I’m sure it was roughly directionally correct which was interesting in and of itself.
I’m not going to go all spoiler alert and talk too much about the plot—if you’re a show person, you’ll probably love it. But there’s also no accounting for personal taste, so maybe you won’t. I loved it, predominantly for one reason—and it was a reason that surprised me.
I loved the show for its message. I wasn’t expecting the musical to have one, and if you asked me 70 minutes into the 80-minute show if was expecting one to come, I would have said no.
But there it was, at the end—a very powerful and uplifting message about personal identity, about reclaiming yourself, your time, your space…and your happiness. Of owning how you’re defined. Of using your voice.
And as I sat, clapping to the beat of the rousing closing number, my heart swelled. Despite all of my needless worry earlier, my eyes, ears, heart, mind, and soul were wide open and I took it all in…I looked at the hand clapping and the smiles beside me…and it hit me how many beautiful moments like this are all around me, and how these moments of joy sparkle like the lights on the Christmas tree.
So, Six wasn’t just a musical about Henry the 8th’s six wives, and our night out wasn’t just about how good the dinner or the show that “I” picked was. The night was about community, togetherness, and love—proving, once again, that things aren’t always what they seem, and life’s about way more than what meets the eye (and occasionally scrambles the brain).
And maybe it sounds corny, but what good is living if we don’t appreciate it and acknowledge the appreciation?
I hope moments of joy sparkle like lights on whatever tree is your life. You sure sparkle in mine, and I am grateful for your presence here with me.
Love you too.
(Now go and have a great weekend!)
I have this kind of anxiety ALL THE TIME! I could totally relate. You should have checked in with me or Ann and we would have told you to relax -- the show is TERRIFIC. We saw it at the ART and in town -- it's just so much fun. I believe it's pretty accurate -- Ann is up on all things TUDORS. Still catching up on your blog.
I loved this. And I believe that the LIAD is a result of all the hurry up let’s go see the Tall Ships 1976, Let’s go see the Pope 1978, and where ever else the families were going. 🥰🥰