Till last Saturday, I had never seen Eve Ensler’s famous play, The Vagina Monologues. Since last Saturday, I have still not seen it. I began le weekend with America’s Finest Intentions. A friend would score a quartet of tickets to the show, which was allegedly performed at Finest City Improv. I believe in its occurrence, because it appeared on the Reader’s events calendar, yet the tickets somehow never materialized, and there was some confusion about where, exactly, the show would be staged; and at what hour of the day, precisely speaking; and of how, in the most concrete sense, one might procure tickets in fact rather than theory.
I feel as if my life remains partially incomplete, never having seen The Vagina Monologues. I have probably used the play as a metaphor for something, and I’ve almost certainly cited it as a point of cultural reference. I have seen it parodied and revered on stage and screen, yet I have never actually seen it performed. I promise you, Vagina Monologues, one of these days, I am going to sit down and listen to approximately 90 minutes of talk about vaginas, after which point I will no longer be able to say, “I have never seen The Vagina Monologues.”
I also meant to see San Diego, I Love You: The Musical. This year’s production of CircleCircleDotDot’s wandering annual love tale promised live jams, singing, and I believe a complimentary beer that I wouldn’t have ended up drinking because Sobruary. Sadly for me, the show took place midday, and I spent both days of my weekend locked into a contentious intramural competition of which we shall never speak again.
There’s a deep conceit buried in there somewhere, about the finitude of human existence. While I reject the game theorists’ argument that life is a zero sum game between participants, there’s a good chance that it’s a zero sum game when you set it to single-player mode. You choose to do X, you don’t get to do Y. Don’t be like me, people. Make good choices. Attend the theater, especially when it’s outdoors, even if it rains.