Night at theater turns into night of despair

As we all know, I cannot go on vacation without some type of insanity ensuing, which may seem hilarious to you, although it's often not that hilarious in my opinion at the time. Case in point:

Last night, a friend and I had tickets to a show that's part of a summer arts festival up here in the mountains. (It's nice for the locals to have a little "culture" up here where, most of the year, the highlights are spitting off the mile-high swinging bridge and organizing search parties for -- and I am not making this up -- Joe Davis' cow, which has escaped her pasture and headed down the road, presumably looking for greener ones.)

The show was Ben Vereen and Chita Rivera doing a musical song-and-dance journey through their Broadway pasts. (If you don't know who Ben Vereen and Chita Rivera are, you are younger than 35, and I have only pity for you and your insipid, pathetic, often-illiterate generation of musical theater crapola! ... Sorry, but sometimes people as humongously old as I am go off for no reason at all.)

Anyway, I was really excited to have snagged some seats in the front row center balcony, even though they were a bit pricey. You only live once, right? And, life is too short to sit behind big hair!

The evening did not begin well, which should have tipped me off. The outfit I'd planned to wear involved white capris with lovely blue embroidery on the side. But, while dressing, I saw that I'd apparently put them away without inspecting them last time, which was when I was in Ohio visiting my parents, and we went out to dinner and had a little red wine, most of which I evidently poured over myself. I scrubbed much of it out, but there were several small spatters on the upper left front, and on the middle right side that wouldn't budge. (How do you spatter red wine on yourself? I'm just asking.) I decided to strike coquettish poses, and hang my purse strategically, to cover them up.

When we arrived, my friend let me out in front, among approximately 3,000 other people, to get our tickets from the will call window. This involved elbowing my way through the throngs of chatting, mostly older, mostly wealthy and impeccably dressed crowd, while unobtrusively clutching my right (spattered) knee, and clasping my purse against my left (spattered) thigh. Once I was plastered against the window -- and this was completely glassed in, with a little metal hole to speak through, as if deranged ticket-holders had repeatedly tried to shoot up the place -- I had to yell for our tickets.

"Name?" she bellows.

"It's Wentz. W-E-N-T-Z," I scream.

(Shuffle through envelopes, confused look.) "That's Lentz?" she shouts.

"No, it's Wentz. W-E-N-T-Z!" I shriek.

(Shuffle shuffle shuffle, impatient look.) "I'm sorry, I have nothing under Witts!"

"That's because it's not Witts, it's Wentz! Www-eee-nnn-ttt-zzz!"

I am being crushed at this point by the mass of folks behind me who want their tickets. After another cursory shuffle through the envelopes, she's bored sick and tells me to go inside to another desk. This is easier said than done, because I am literally pinned between the horde of people around me and the front door.

More elbowing, more leg-clutching and after 17 minutes I'm finally at the desk, where -- after waiting behind a man who has decided to pop in and buy tickets for seven shows, but he wants good seats, so he and the lady are discussing the pros and cons of balcony versus orchestra for every single show -- they miraculously find my tickets. My friend finally slugs her way to me, and we head upstairs.

"Why are you holding yourself like that?" she asks.

"Shut up," I reply.

I'm still excited about the seats, so we hurry down the front row to the center, sit down and discover that there's a railing that the theater has placed approximately 12 inches above the balcony wall ... directly in front of my eyes. I am stunned into speechlessness, which is almost impossible for me. If I slide down in my seat, the way I've lectured my children not to do, I can see under the railing; and, if I sit really tall at the edge of my seat, which eventually produces back spasms, I can see over the railing. But, just to sit in my seat like a regular person and see the stage? Not happening.

I lay my head on the back of the seat and close my eyes. I am sweating. I am spattered. I am devastated. And, wherever she is, I'm thinking about joining Joe Davis' cow.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at v.wentz@yahoo.com.