I’m sitting in the center orchestra, row T, neatly nestled in the jewel box that is The Koch Theater at Lincoln Center in New York City,  watching these young, slender bodies in motion.  What a lusty expression of control and longing.  Is this love?  Brahm’s Liebeslieder Waltzes fill the space by way of a piano duet, and four operatic protégés cast in the shadows of the theater.  In full force four elegant couples dance in circles and spells on a stage transformed into an elegant early 20th century ballroom.  Impossibly large, tiered, soft white candlelit chandeliers hang high in front of arched glass doors opened to reveal the artfully painted clear night sky. The audience is meant to feel we are gazing upon a luxuriously grand estate, on a particular celebratory evening, where an exclusive crowd has gathered.

Each female dancer is dressed as one would expect for such an event, draped in silk lightly touched with shades of pastel pink, rose, or cream.  Underneath the dresses each dancer is wrapped in layers of tufted petticoats.  Gowns flowing, twirling, ever so gracefully kissing the floor.  And the men, these handsome, robust yet feminine men moving their partner from this space to that, overhead, around and in such specific maneuvers, with so little effort.  What a beautiful sight!  I see you up there.  All of you, you are just gorgeous and perfect. You may not be real.  You may all be highly stylized living dolls.

So quickly my thoughts deteriorate from enjoying this magical spectacle to fulfilling some nagging sensation to mentally move on.  I need to provide some relief to my base, bored, other cortex.  My “I can’t just sit here and watch this” mind.  My “I can’t relax and let this wave of artistic beauty wash over me” mind.  I was doing fine sitting here in this magnificent space, with you magnificent people for like 15 minutes.  Oh here it comes, here it comes…the dwindling…

I can’t believe there’s an Indian guy up there.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen an Indian guy dance ballet before.  Is he the best one up there?  I think he is.  Wow.  I wonder where he learned to dance.  In the U.S.?  Wait, why do I think he was born in India?  He could be from Queens for all I know.  But wait.  Why does he have to be from Queens?  That’s stereotypical thinking.  Maybe he’s from Wichita.

There are mostly white people dancing.  This is like a white person’s art.  Except for this Indian guy.  It’s strange.  Ok making a mental note to Google him later.  Wow, am I racist?  I mean I know I’m a little racist.  Everybody is.  But am I unusually racist?  Why am I obsessing about this Indian dude?

20 minutes in.

Hmmm I wonder who up there is fucking whom?  The blonde chic and the Indian guy make a nice couple.  Do these people get to date?  Do they even have time to get to know each other? Maybe they just get it on in the dressing room after the performance.    I wonder if they go out eating and drinking at night.  Like they’re raging party people.  No, how could they party and then get up and dance a fucking ballet the next day?  They are probably all anorexic teetotalers.

25 minutes.

Alright is anybody on the stage over 25?  There definitely isn’t anyone up there in their 30s.  I wonder what a ballet performed by 40 year olds would look like.  Let me just picture everyone I know in a leotard.  Oh shit, oh no, I just caught a glimpse.  No no no.

They’ve all been dancing now for quite some time.  At least a half an hour.  How long can they possibly continue this way?  Aren’t they tired?  I’m exhausted just sitting here.

30 minutes.

I wonder if the line will be too long at intermission to get a glass of champagne.  There are some really freaky people in the audience.  Jesus, take a look around.  Who goes to the ballet?  It’s the strangest mix of people.  Oh maybe it’s just New York. What is that lady wearing?  Is that a burka? What the fuck with burkas?  It’s the fucking ballet you twat.  Oh my God that lady looks like a pirate.  What is she 80 wearing those red riding knee-high  boots and white raglan sleeve top?  With fucking leather pants?  I wonder what I’ll look like when I’m 80.  Like shit on shit I bet.  I need some new clothes. I look so normal.  Like suburban normal.  Boring normal.  Not even cool normal just fucking idiotic normal.  I never have the right jeans.  Or shoes.  These flat fucking Clarke’s.  Clarke’s.  Parks.  Farks.  Darks.  Sparks.  Duh duh duh duh my shoes suck.

32 minutes.

Fuck.

40 minutes.

Oh, it’s intermission.  OK that was really nice.  I should just try to go to the ballet more often.  I’m not involved in the arts enough.  Maybe the kids would like this.  Maybe I should put the kids in ballet classes.  Aubrey didn’t like it.  But she doesn’t like a lot of things.  Fiona would like it.  She’s amendable.  But lessons are so expensive and really what’s the point?  It’s not like they’re going to end up like this Indian guy.  They can just spin each other around the fucking living room I guess.

Ok, back from intermission.   Next up, a Philip Glass ballet. It’s time for a whole different experience now.  This should be interesting.  First we see this traditional ballet, now we’re going to see something modern.    I wonder if the same dancers dance in both ballets.  How would they have the energy?

OK this is different.  Minimalist yet colorful.  Repetitive.  Alright.  OK.

5 minutes in.

A lot of these guys have highly pronounced moose knuckles. Are they wearing underwear?  Can’t be.  Don’t their balls sweat under that spandex?  Is that spandex or nylon?  Why can’t I see sweat?