Once upon a time I noticed a be-au-ti-ful man at a boxing party at my gym. Over the months, I ran into him at various events: the Montreal boxing scene is a small one, even the friends of friends and groupies get to know one another. I never spoke to him, both because of a reluctance to pander to the (presumed) ego of beautiful men, and because my own deep-seated insecurities told me he was out of my league. (Off-topic: this blog has been extremely useful in identifying my unhelpful thought patterns. Case in point.)
At a boxing Halloween party last month, he spoke to me briefly. Well, actually, he tried to steal some of my candy, and I reflexively stiff-armed him out of the way. Beauty < candy, obvi. Realizing that I’d mildly overreacted, I chatted long enough to prove I was capable of normal social behaviour and then I ended the convo to continue my pursuit of alcohol and KitKats.
Feeling ballsy, I added him on Facebook and then forgot to stalk his profile. He messaged me a week later, much to my glee. (That isn’t an exaggeration. I was at a wedding, and I squealed loudly when I saw his name on my phone. Don’t judge me.) Over the next few days there was typical fun banter until the moment when, after discovering we live close to one another, and are approximately neighbours, he asked me if that was my slick way of inviting him over.
No. No, it wasn’t. I’m a classy lady, bro.
He replied that inviting someone over was not a matter of class. Conceding his point, I warned him that the whole “Netflix & chill” would never happen – but that if we upgraded it to “opera & chill” (the classier version), I’d consider it. I thought I was being hilarious. No man under the age of 50 in his right mind would willingly sit through 3 hours of opera, no matter what the incentive. Right?! Wrong. Turns out Beaut enjoys trying new things, and expanding his horizons.
Ladies and gents, we went to see Verdi’s Il Trovatore broadcasted from New York City’s Met (check out details here, to find out if movie theatres near you are participating).
I was pretty amused by the unexpected turn of events. I couldn’t picture Beaut sitting through THREE HOURS of this:
My friends took bets. He’d last 15 minutes. He’d arrange for an emergency SOS call 35 mins into the performance. He’d have me arrested for cruel and unusual treatment.
My friends all lost their bets. Instead, Beaut watched the entire thing, and peppered the evening with his hilarious commentary:
This stuff is really dramatic, isn’t it. I mean, these people really go over the top with their emotions, it’s just too much! Out of the 4 main singers up on stage now, and all those backup singers, how is it that NOT ONE of them spoke up to say, “You guys. Stop it. Stop trying to kill each other. Let’s explore some other alternatives, ok?”
How come opera always involves a love triangle where one or more people die? Love is supposed to be beautiful. I mean, if I loved you, I wouldn’t try kill you, I’d suggest we have a baby.
This guy. How come he can’t accept that she’s just not into him?! Move on, bro! Enough singing about her, she ain’t gonna change her mind. Where is your pride? Never run after a woman. Especially not for 4 acts! If I wrote an opera, it would be 3 pages long. One page to introduce the characters and the setting. One page to explain who loves who. And no love triangle! My guy, when realizing that the woman isn’t into him, would say “Ok” and then go find himself a woman who liked him. The end.
Yet after all that, all three and a half hours of opera, Beaut did not get any chill. Paralyzed by sudden social anxiety (as tends to happen to me on dates – remember the garbage truck or the standup comic?), it took all my efforts to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. Poor dear. I can’t even imagine what this story looks like from his end. It’s like he went to the opera with a female Mr. Bean.
I think it’s safe to say that last night was a series of surprises, for both of us.