This weekend I was… fortunate… enough to attend a performance of St. Mathew’s Passion. If you aren’t familiar with this particular work, it’s often said to be Bach’s greatest work. Yes… Three hours of pure, brilliant Bach and his delightful work. It’s also often said that having the opportunity to see this performed is a once in a lifetime situation. And I completely agree with that.
Because there is absolutely nobody living on this planet who would attend it more than one time.
I’m feeling slightly guilty now, it’s nothing against Bach. He clearly was very talented. It’s nothing against the performers, they all did an amazing job as well. It’s not even anything against the fact that it was in German, which I do not understand at all. Well, maybe it was a little about that… But overall, the performance itself was great.
So what was the problem then? What is it that caused such bitterness? Well, my dearest ‘Sam’azing readers (Yes, I am quite clever. I know.), let me just tell you all about it…
At first, things didn’t seem so bad. I didn’t even have to wear a dress to this crazy thing. Although, in reality that’s not very surprising. In a town like this, where at least half of the population are what you could call ‘hicks’, it’s asking a lot to expect them to dress up that much.
But, nonetheless, I was feeling pretty positive about it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was looking forward to it, but I at least thought I would manage to make it through without having any sort of psychotic meltdown.
As I was shoving my feet into my off-brand wannabe Keds that used to be white but had turned into what I like to call eggshell white in an attempt to sound sophisticated, I heard my mother screaming at me from upstairs that it was time to go. Looking down at the time on my phone, I raised my eyebrows and looked skeptically in the direction of my mother’s voice. It was only 6:00, the symphony didn’t start until 7. Why on earth did we need to be there an hour early?
When I walked up the stairs and expressed my opinion on this, very politely I might add (with an emphasis on the politely), my mother was far from impressed. Clearly, she knew something I didn’t. Although, I’m a teenager and I know everything. So, I have no idea why she would doubt me.
So, in the end, of course we left and arrived with exactly 57 minutes until this delightful, once-in-a-lifetime event would begin. We made our way up to our seats in the nosebleeds, cheapo section of course and there we waited.
With a heavy sigh, I threw myself down into my seat which looked deceivingly squishy but was, in fact, a lot like sitting on some rather uncomfortable boulders. Frowning, I spent at least ten minutes shifting and squirming to find a position that was at least manageable.
Finally giving up on the idea of comfort, I propped my feet up on the seats in front of me which were empty at the time. I then proceeded to crack my neck and back in a manner that probably made me appear to be possessed and created the sound effect of a machine gun. I saw multiple people duck for cover in a rather dramatic display.
It was at this moment, when I had also begun to chew the gum I forgot to spit out before coming, that I noticed a young guy heading up the stairs towards our row. He glanced down at the ticket he held in his hand, and then his focused shifted to the seat directly next to me. Making his way up the last few steps, he reached the row and walked to his seat. I’d like to say I was as smooth and clever as I am while writing this, but sadly this is not the case.
“Hi,” he said with a slight smile, as he lowered himself to sit beside me.
With my legs still resting on the seats in front of me, I began struggling to shift myself from my hoodlum-rebellious teenager position into something that had at least a hint of the maturity and sophistication that I promise I posses. Let me tell you, in those narrow rows, with your mother on your right and this rather attractive guy to your left, this is no easy task. I’m pretty sure he received a few kicks to the shins.
“Hi,” I answered, surprising myself when my voice came out clear instead of cracking like a 12 year old boy’s.
I think there was more conversation, but I can’t guarantee this and I certainly can’t recall it as my brain had turned to mush. Yes, I can indeed be quite the pathetic teen girl at times. Oh, Sam…
What I do recall, however, is the other young man who took it upon himself to simply ruin what was sure to be a budding romance. From where he stood in an aisle way beneath our section, he called out incredibly loudly and dramatically to his friend; complete with arm waving, shouting, whistling, and even some jumping/prancing just to really make it clear.
In moments, the guy was rising from his seat, giving me a halfhearted wave, and walking away with his horrid friend. After glaring at them until they disappeared from my sight, I went back to my hoodlum-rebellious angst-filled teenager position.
While I was staring off into the distance, imagining what it would be like to be watching Netflix right now, another man began making his way up to our row. And I could tell instantly that he would be absolutely wonderful to spend three hours with.
“Man, it’s like climbing a mountain!” he shouted, out of breath and struggling to finish his challenging voyage.
When he managedw to reach the summit, he waddled his way into the row and with an unnecessarily loud sigh plopped himself down next to me.
“It’s really quiet up here” he whispered, leaning uncomfortable close. Shifting away from his garlic breath, I gave him a nod and focused my attention on the hundreds of other people milling around who had suddenly become very interesting.
Oh, wow. Look at that guy. His face was contorted with a disgusted and pained expression as he attempted to squeeze his way past a somewhat chubby old man.
Hah, and that lady! The one who comes last and forces the entire row to stand while she shimmies her way all the way past all of them.
Ah, well that couple cuddling quite intensely in front of me is somewhat disturbing… I think we’re done people watching now.
By this time, I had lost all hope of a pleasant experience and Sir Garlicbreath certainly was not helping.
Now, believe me, I could go into much more detail about the next three hours. I mean, the actual show hasn’t even started yet.. But, I’m getting exhausted just writing this stuff. It’s like reliving it all for a second time.. Shudder…
And so, I shall leave you with that while I spend the next countless hours therapeutically watching Netflix (specifically Supernatural, of course) and overcoming this traumatic experience.