Sleeping Beauty: A review by my date
My date, of course, was a very much married woman, a very close friend who had nothing to do on a not-so-wintry 50-degree Saturday afternoon. This isn’t so much a review as a joke from a woman who was seated three rows down the orchestra and literally had a birds’ eye view.
Her: Guys look ugly in tights! They should invent some paddings to cover their parts.
Me: A tutu?
What I meant to say really was: And deny a select audience their money’s worth?
By god, one dancer had such an impressive imprint you couldn’t resist but look, and comment. Not that I would have blurted the same unsavory words because there was nothing ugly about that man in thights at all. I had to summon enough willpower to get my head off of that fine specie of a head – I mean man. I wish I had worn pleated chinos instead of the flat-front tailored slacks I had on. Not that I have pleated pants, because, really, who wears them?
Her: The women don’t have boobs!
Me: If Pamela Anderson was Princess Aurora all men in the audience would be at attention. Oh, the queue to the bathroom during intermission would be horrible.
Damn that dancer!
Her: The prince is ugly!
Me: Right!
Kinky hair, the texture of wire brush, and not so bubble-y butt. I dunno! Everything about this Prince Florimund wasn’t princely. Damn! That dancer with a proud scepter would have assed, er, aced the part.
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