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Phantom of the Opera
Last night karma’s army smiled down on me. (Oh Earl) I had been feeling increasingly guilty about living in the city for almost a year not having experience anything really unique to New York. The subway is overcrowded, rents are too high, a grapefruit costs about three times as much as it did at home, but you live here because you can do things here you can’t do anywhere else. Well, that’s what I tell myself. Unfortunately, I have been living here to work long hours and get drunk on the weekends, which, it seems to me, I can do everywhere else.
However, last night I was a cultured young lady…or my best impression of one. Through some stroke of good luck, my friend managed to score free FRONT ROW tickets to Phantom of the Opera. Besides the fact that being so close to the stage fostered my suspicions that “young Christine” was actually about twice my age, it was amazing. The music was incredible and although it was a show I never would have chosen to see, I am really glad I did. It was overwhelmingly romantic and for someone like myself, who considers it romantic when my guy leaves the room to fart, it was a true test of the suspension of disbelief that most musicals require.
It got me thinking about my own life and what I considered romantic and if I believed in any of that stuff. What was the most romantic gesture of my life so far? Or any romantic gesture at all? Do I even have one? It was tough to put my finger on anything truly romantic in my life…not through the fault of guys but through my own aversion to anything candlelit, pink or tied to emotion. There has been one person, though, who created one of the most romantic moments of my life, completely unbeknownst to him.
He was in a relationship and while we had grown close as friends there were other feelings that were beginning to form. We both ignored it and pretended it was completely normal to call/email or text a friend four to five times a day. A trip put us away from his relationship and from our good senses and soon we were sleeping in the same bed every night…just to be close to one another. We spent every moment of that trip together and while nothing physical had happened I felt closer to this person then I ever would have thought possible. The last night we lied in bed talking softly and laying closely. He admitted that he wanted to kiss me but that he couldn’t and I agreed. I told him that I wanted it more then anything but that I didn’t want to be something he regretted. I had faith that he wouldn’t forget what we had and at some point he would be able to kiss me and mean it. Just as I resigned myself to the fact that nothing would happen between us…he kissed me. It took me a few minutes for my mind to register what was happening and I was distracted from any practical thoughts as I recognized how tightly he was holding me and how passionately he was kissing me. His hands were on my face, in my hair, and slowly moved to the small of my back. We kissed for hours…nothing more…just kissed and I remember being amazed at how something so new could feel so comfortable and right.
I didn’t want to stop kissing him and didn’t want the night to end. I knew the next morning that nothing would be the same…and it wasn’t. I never kissed him again and we never regained the closeness or friendship that we once had. Maybe that’s what makes it romantic. Maybe romance can only exist with a certain obstacle or force in your way. Maybe it only exists if you never actually enter the relationship, that way you never see it fade. Maybe it really should be left to people with deformed faces living in the basement of an opera house...or something.
Red Tape: Phantom of the Opera
Last night karma’s army smiled down on me. (Oh Earl) I had been feeling increasingly guilty about living in the city for almost a year not having experience anything really unique to New York. The subway is overcrowded, rents are too high, a grapefruit costs about three times as much as it did at home, but you live here because you can do things here you can’t do anywhere else. Well, that’s what I tell myself. Unfortunately, I have been living here to work long hours and get drunk on the weekends, which, it seems to me, I can do everywhere else.
However, last night I was a cultured young lady…or my best impression of one. Through some stroke of good luck, my friend managed to score free FRONT ROW tickets to Phantom of the Opera. Besides the fact that being so close to the stage fostered my suspicions that “young Christine” was actually about twice my age, it was amazing. The music was incredible and although it was a show I never would have chosen to see, I am really glad I did. It was overwhelmingly romantic and for someone like myself, who considers it romantic when my guy leaves the room to fart, it was a true test of the suspension of disbelief that most musicals require.
It got me thinking about my own life and what I considered romantic and if I believed in any of that stuff. What was the most romantic gesture of my life so far? Or any romantic gesture at all? Do I even have one? It was tough to put my finger on anything truly romantic in my life…not through the fault of guys but through my own aversion to anything candlelit, pink or tied to emotion. There has been one person, though, who created one of the most romantic moments of my life, completely unbeknownst to him.
He was in a relationship and while we had grown close as friends there were other feelings that were beginning to form. We both ignored it and pretended it was completely normal to call/email or text a friend four to five times a day. A trip put us away from his relationship and from our good senses and soon we were sleeping in the same bed every night…just to be close to one another. We spent every moment of that trip together and while nothing physical had happened I felt closer to this person then I ever would have thought possible. The last night we lied in bed talking softly and laying closely. He admitted that he wanted to kiss me but that he couldn’t and I agreed. I told him that I wanted it more then anything but that I didn’t want to be something he regretted. I had faith that he wouldn’t forget what we had and at some point he would be able to kiss me and mean it. Just as I resigned myself to the fact that nothing would happen between us…he kissed me. It took me a few minutes for my mind to register what was happening and I was distracted from any practical thoughts as I recognized how tightly he was holding me and how passionately he was kissing me. His hands were on my face, in my hair, and slowly moved to the small of my back. We kissed for hours…nothing more…just kissed and I remember being amazed at how something so new could feel so comfortable and right.
I didn’t want to stop kissing him and didn’t want the night to end. I knew the next morning that nothing would be the same…and it wasn’t. I never kissed him again and we never regained the closeness or friendship that we once had. Maybe that’s what makes it romantic. Maybe romance can only exist with a certain obstacle or force in your way. Maybe it only exists if you never actually enter the relationship, that way you never see it fade. Maybe it really should be left to people with deformed faces living in the basement of an opera house...or something.
Red Tape: Phantom of the Opera
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