tim (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} foboat) wrote,@ 2006-12-18 22:27:00 |
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The ballet starts at 7:30, and I picked up the tickets at 6:50. Standing outside the bridge that connects Orange County Performing Arts Center and the nearby parking lot, the time is now 7:40. I suddenly remember that it had rained earlier that day; I walk back to the car and tuck an umbrella under my overcoat.
The phone rings. I snuff out my cigarette and pick up.
“Sorry, I just got your message about the show time.” It’s K. “I’m finding a parking spot as we speak. I’ll call you when I’m parked.”
“No rush,” I reply, as festively dressed families and teens in black trench coats walk next to housewives in Prada and husbands in leather jackets. The real Orange County house wives. “I should have made sure you got the message, instead of just text you a reply. Besides, it’s just the overture we are missing.”
I figure I have time for another cigarette, since I over heard the parking attendants turning drivers away because the parking lot was full. In California, punctuality does not matter, what matters is how you arrive. In the crowd, I see mink, leather, and bare skin. I see Louis Vitton, Yves Saint Lauren, and Chanelle. Sadly, I see Nike, Levis, and LA Gears.
I see families all come in street cloths and sweaters, and I see families that are dressed to impress. I see parents that are immaculately made up, only to see their kids dressed in a t-shirt bearing the image of a popular rock band.
“Is this your husband?” Cynthia’s coworkers asked her as we walked up to greet them at her fertility clinic’s Christmas Party at the White House in Anaheim a few days ago. I wasn’t the husband, I wanted to say, in fact, I was the backup date. But somehow that seemed rude. I also did not want draw attention to the fact that I was underdressed. A studded white belt doesn’t exactly say “formal.” I knew I should have asked more questions about the dress code.
Her Christmas party’s demographic is eerily similar to the one my company held for us, although the scale is decidedly different. Open bar is present at both, but the three course dinner gave away to a roast beef buffet with hors d’oeuvre platters. There old money mingled with new money, doctors with layman, manager with subordinates, distilling a sense of family into an establishment with gourmet food and games where everybody wins a prize. This is how you manage, this is how you lead. You lead by objectifying your midlife crisis with a dated symbol of your youth, and singing songs of yesteryears to your subordinates who are too polite to tell you “your band sucks.” And there’s me. The kid running around the ballroom, with gin and whiskey in him, documenting everything because he isn’t old enough to understand why. I know I drew some looks from strangers for being the kid with the camera and the 10 dollar hound’s-tooth jacket. The looks weren’t exactly kind.
I exhaled and snuff out the cigarette and reach for the gift, now slightly wet from the moisture. I hope she likes it, I thought as I walk toward the entrance. A worker started to pull open the door and takes out her holstered ticket scanner.
“My date isn’t here yet,” I said. The worker tilts her head slightly to the side, and gives me a “that’s too bad” look. I bet she was a good mom to her kids. I return a smile and lean back on the pink marble railing as she holsters her scanner and retreats inside, away from the cold. I shake my umbrella dry and place it inside my coat, since the rain has already slowed to a fine mist.
My phone rings. It’s now close to 8 o’clock, and the rain has already stopped. I told her to walk toward the arch of the magnificent arches outside Segarstrom Hall. I will meet her there.
As we walked blindly to our seats, following an elderly volunteer who is hard of hearing, I realized we didn’t miss that much of the ballet after all. Herr Drosselmeyer is just giving the candy to the children, and our hero, the Nutcracker, is still missing in action. I look over at K. She is enjoying herself.
And she looked absolutely lovely.
The phone rings. I snuff out my cigarette and pick up.
“Sorry, I just got your message about the show time.” It’s K. “I’m finding a parking spot as we speak. I’ll call you when I’m parked.”
“No rush,” I reply, as festively dressed families and teens in black trench coats walk next to housewives in Prada and husbands in leather jackets. The real Orange County house wives. “I should have made sure you got the message, instead of just text you a reply. Besides, it’s just the overture we are missing.”
I figure I have time for another cigarette, since I over heard the parking attendants turning drivers away because the parking lot was full. In California, punctuality does not matter, what matters is how you arrive. In the crowd, I see mink, leather, and bare skin. I see Louis Vitton, Yves Saint Lauren, and Chanelle. Sadly, I see Nike, Levis, and LA Gears.
I see families all come in street cloths and sweaters, and I see families that are dressed to impress. I see parents that are immaculately made up, only to see their kids dressed in a t-shirt bearing the image of a popular rock band.
“Is this your husband?” Cynthia’s coworkers asked her as we walked up to greet them at her fertility clinic’s Christmas Party at the White House in Anaheim a few days ago. I wasn’t the husband, I wanted to say, in fact, I was the backup date. But somehow that seemed rude. I also did not want draw attention to the fact that I was underdressed. A studded white belt doesn’t exactly say “formal.” I knew I should have asked more questions about the dress code.
Her Christmas party’s demographic is eerily similar to the one my company held for us, although the scale is decidedly different. Open bar is present at both, but the three course dinner gave away to a roast beef buffet with hors d’oeuvre platters. There old money mingled with new money, doctors with layman, manager with subordinates, distilling a sense of family into an establishment with gourmet food and games where everybody wins a prize. This is how you manage, this is how you lead. You lead by objectifying your midlife crisis with a dated symbol of your youth, and singing songs of yesteryears to your subordinates who are too polite to tell you “your band sucks.” And there’s me. The kid running around the ballroom, with gin and whiskey in him, documenting everything because he isn’t old enough to understand why. I know I drew some looks from strangers for being the kid with the camera and the 10 dollar hound’s-tooth jacket. The looks weren’t exactly kind.
I exhaled and snuff out the cigarette and reach for the gift, now slightly wet from the moisture. I hope she likes it, I thought as I walk toward the entrance. A worker started to pull open the door and takes out her holstered ticket scanner.
“My date isn’t here yet,” I said. The worker tilts her head slightly to the side, and gives me a “that’s too bad” look. I bet she was a good mom to her kids. I return a smile and lean back on the pink marble railing as she holsters her scanner and retreats inside, away from the cold. I shake my umbrella dry and place it inside my coat, since the rain has already slowed to a fine mist.
My phone rings. It’s now close to 8 o’clock, and the rain has already stopped. I told her to walk toward the arch of the magnificent arches outside Segarstrom Hall. I will meet her there.
As we walked blindly to our seats, following an elderly volunteer who is hard of hearing, I realized we didn’t miss that much of the ballet after all. Herr Drosselmeyer is just giving the candy to the children, and our hero, the Nutcracker, is still missing in action. I look over at K. She is enjoying herself.
And she looked absolutely lovely.
