Wicked

I almost cried last night. And considering I can often be a bit of an emotional stump, this was a big deal. And not a “my life sucks” cry either. I’ll call it a “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” tear.

About a week ago, a friend who used to work in subtitling (but has since seen the light and found employment elsewhere) emailed me. She offered me a free ticket to see Wicked. Yes, Wicked, the show I’ve wanted to see for so long. Unfortunately, since I’ve been broke for even longer, I could never find a way to justify spending $100 on one evening.

We went last night. It was amazing. Absolutely amazing. I sound like Katie Holmes describing her Tom in one adjective over and over, but in my case, it’s completely true and non-creepy. The music was phenomenal (new adjective); the talent was so good it was intimidating. I felt like a 9-year-old version of myself, completely caught up in the magic of the theatre.

For those who know nothing of the show, it’s essentially the untold story of the witches of Oz. The whole concept was carried out so smartly and hilariously. It also managed to challenge perspectives and superficial judgments without becoming a public service announcement. I was ready to see it again the moment it was over. And for one short night, I actually had a life.

The crowded theatre (it’s pretty much a sold-out tour) was on its feet the entire curtain call. And that’s when I almost cried. Because if I was a little girl, I would see that and decide that that was exactly what I wanted to do with my life. That I wanted to be taking that bow. And because I’m not, instead I woke up at 6 and subtitled ‘80s television. I think I realized that I stopped letting myself dream. Somehow I allowed myself to believe the lie that the life I’m leading now is the only life that’s out there for me.

Last night was magical. I’m going to embrace my inner 9-year-old more often.