I haven’t blogged in a while. Last we (I) spoke, I was in the middle of my
Sophia Loren phase. A lot has gone down
since then. School children and firemen
were shot and killed. We went over a
fiscal cliff. The end of the Mayan
calendar didn’t mark the end of
civilization as we know it. People are
(as per usual) sick, starving and jobless.
Nobody can get along on anything.
There’s doom and gloom all around… and I’ve been in grad school writing
papers, not blogging.
Let me catch you up on something that happened to me since I
last posted an entry. It happened to me
over winter break.
Those who know me (even just a little bit) know that one of
my top three favorite past-times is going to Broadway musicals… even the
somewhat crappy ones. As I was in New
Jersey / Brooklyn visiting family over the break, I insisted upon going into
Manhattan one-day to try to see a show.
SO, the day after Christmas, my family and I took a Lakeland
bus from Dover into Mid-Town. Never mind
that I had a Christmas stomachache left-over from the night before. Never mind that it was supposed to storm
later and it might take us three hours to get back into New Jersey. Never mind that there wasn’t a particular
show that I found myself salivating to see.
I just had to see something.
And… Well… After standing in the TKTS line, I realized
that something was Ricky Martin in EVITA.
I know, right? I was
super jazzed.
Those who know me (even just a little bit) know that Ricky
Martin holds a special place in my corazon. His first album was my JAM. The opportunity to see him play Che in EVITA
made me giddy – and for ½ price. YEAH.
Never mind that my stomach was gurgling pretty hardcore at
this point. With about an hour before
curtain, my family and I decided to hit up the Times Square Olive Garden (we
O’Connors are a classy bunch). Perfect,
I thought. I’ll order a little salad,
some soup. I’ll be great. Never mind that over lunch, I visited the
ladies room three times and my stomach started to hurt even worse. My sister made fun of me for the spacey,
nervous look in my eye.
After lunch, walking felt okay, I suppose. Never mind that the scent from every falafel
cart we passed made me queasy. When my
sister suggested going into a Yankees souvenir store, I said sure.
As I trudged up the stairs of the Yankee apparel place, with
each breath, I got more and more nauseated.
At the top, in the excessive warmth of the store, I felt that
unmistakable flush in my cheeks – that gaggy feeling. Now, it was for real. I was going to vomit. Before having time to ask the location of the
nearest toilet, I started to projectile all over the floor. Goodbye latkes I had at continental
breakfast. Goodbye Olive Garden.
Hovering over a massive puddle, trying to catch my breath, I
told my mom I felt better and could go see Ricky Martin. Never mind I had puke in my hair. My Dad said NO WAY. I had to go back to the motel in Jersey and
he’d go with me. My sister and my mom
would take the tickets to see EVITA.
Though I was disappointed, I knew my dad had a point. I couldn’t risk throwing up like a
five-year-old again – much less in a hallowed hall like the theater. I needed to go home.
I’ll spare you the details of what happened when we got off
the bus in Dover and drove back to the motel.
The details of how I reenacted the disgusting bridal shop scene from
BRIDESMAIDS during a sleet storm would probably just gross you out and I’ve
done enough of that for one blog entry.
Needless to say, while my Mom and sister were watching the
incomparable Ricky Martin, I wasn’t having the time of my life. In fact, I think I’ve had that nightmare
before – missing a Broadway show due to the stomach bug.
SO.
What’s the point of my telling you about all of this?
About a week and a half after what I am lovingly referring
to as “The Evita Incident,” I visted a Norman Rockwell exhibit at the
Birmingham Museum of Art. As I gazed
upon Rockwell’s old Saturday Evening Post covers, I was struck by the stories
that resided within every single image that the guy painted. Images like these –
I know this sounds weird, y’all, but I found myself
wondering what a Saturday Evening Post Cover of my Evita incident would look
like – a girl in a blue sweatshirt losing the contents of her stomach in a
Yankees souvenir shop, an embarrassed twinkle in her eye. If people looked at a painting of that – what
would they think it meant? Would it be
read as some sort of Anti-Yankee, Pro-Mets statement? Would it be taken in that same “apple pie
America” way that most Norman Rockwell paintings are? WHAT WOULD IT MEAN?
What does anything that happens to us MEAN? Whether it’s an afternoon of the stomach bug,
having a vending machine fail to give you what you want, winning the lottery,
getting fired or even losing somebody close to you?
What does it mean?
I could give weight to my Evita incident. I could say that without it, my appreciation
of the Norman Rockwell exhibit would have been less. I could say that without it, I’d have little
to blog about. However, trying to make
sense of the events that happen to us can drive us up the wall.
We do it anyway.
It seems impossible sometimes for us as human beings to comprehend
that stuff might just happen for no reason and with no real consequence. Our nature is to constantly question and make
sense of everything – to give significance to stuff that might actually be
insignificant.
AND –
If I’ve learned anything over the course of winter break,
it’s that art and storytelling are an incredible means by which we can reflect
on and make sense of things – to make significance of the insignificant. That’s what I love about it. That’s why I shared this story with you guys
today.
By blogging about missing Evita due to the stomach bug, I’ve
somehow elevated the incident and given it more significance – even if it’s
just in my head. Calling out the little
incidents and little scenes in our lives makes us stop and take stock of what’s
happened to us. It forces us to pay
better attention to our existence – to being alive.
Would anybody notice the above Norman Rockwell paintings if
they happened in real life – or is it because they’re solidified on canvas and
on magazine covers that we pause to think about them?
Give it a ponder.
I’ve also come to the conclusion, however, that perhaps it’s
bad to have the kind of time on your hands where you can ruminate on the little
things that happen to you. For if this
is the case, you might write blog entries about vomiting in souvenir stores and
really gross folks out. Maybe I do need
to get back to school and to writing papers again.
Ciao for now.
