You may have seen my tweet this week as I tried to refrain from hyperventilating on a subway platform:
It's 7:55 and I have an 8pm theatre ticket and the subway won't come and I am FREAKING OUT!!!
I was on my way to see Follies, one of the few Sondheim shows I've never seen performed live. I didn't want to miss a second of it. There is no panic like the panic of being late to a Broadway show. Especially for someone like me -- who has little patience for those who break the cardinal rules of theater-going. I was checking my watch and pacing the platform and jumping up & down like I had to pee my pants. And the debate in my head: Should I take a cab? I'll hit traffic! If the train comes in the next few minutes it will still be faster than dealing with rush-hour in Times Square. But if the train DOESN'T come, I'm screwed. I've got to take a cab. Wait, is that the train? I think that's the train! Damn it, that isn't the train. How much time do I have???
I was on the platform at 14th street for fifteen minutes before the first train lazed into the station. Of course, it was a local. Then the debate became Do I get on the local so I can just be on my way? What if an express train is right behind it? I was trying to do math (and I'm not good at math) to determine the odds of getting to the theatre on time. It felt, by the time I sent that tweet, like a lost cause. I finally just got on the train, with some element of relief that progress was at long-last being made toward the center of NYC.
I might not have been so frantic if this was my first time being late to the theatre. Everyone deserves one pass. But unfortunately, I used up my "excusable tardy" a couple of months ago -- and man did it come back to bite me in the ass. (Why haven't I talked or tweeted about this before, you ask? Because it was the single most embarrassing moment in my theatre-going life, and I've been trying to forget it ever since!)
One late afternoon, meandering through Times Square as I am wont to do, I spotted the glittery marquee in front of the Palace Theatre. Immediately, the disco hits started playing in my head and I began to tap my glittery stiletto heels (apparently, without knowing it, I'd dressed for the occasion!). It was nearly 6pm, time for the Priscilla lottery, and I (and my heels) were feeling lucky. I trotted on over, joined the crowd of waiting fans, and entered my name. Shortly thereafter the lottery began... and my name was the first one called!
Joyously, I paid for my front row tickets and exited the box office. I decided to squeeze in a run before the show began, so I cued up my Broadway workout mix and went home to change my clothes.
It was a gorgeous day and I was pumped by the tunes and I ran and ran and ran... and before I knew it, I was four miles from midtown and it was 7:15. I sprinted my fastest 4 miles ever and made it home in time for a quick shower and then sprinted again 3/4 mi to the theatre (so much for the shower).
It was fourteen minutes after 8pm.
The show was already in high gear and Nathan Lee Graham was strutting onstage like the most beautiful and ostentatious feathered bird you've ever seen. It was between songs and I thought I was sneaking quietly into the theatre. Then all of a sudden Nathan -- as "Miss Understood" -- pointed right at me.
I can't remember his exact words (my shame was too loudly ringing in my ears), but he fully called me out for being late in front of 1700 patrons. Every face in the Palace turned my way.
In all of my life, walking down a theatre aisle to a front row seat has always been a huge thrill. Not this time. I wanted to turn invisible. I was so embarrassed I could barely stand, let alone walk. It felt like it took me forever to get to my seat! And while I laughed it off, I learned my lesson about being late to a Broadway show. Or so I thought.
Back to the present:
