Why I hate the ballet.

Actually, I don’t hate it, I just don’t enjoy it. It’s one of those things I just can’t get into. Like German opera and conceptual art.

I can appreciate the ballet. I realize the skill sets and strength required is extreme. I don’t associate it with effeminate men in panty hose. I don’t have any hang-ups about the pomposity of the whole affair (there’s no denying the pomposity). I just find it repetitive and boring. And the music tends to affect me like Ambien.

The first time I saw the ballet entailed a huge fight with my wife. I just wasn’t interested in putting on my finery and sitting through an extended night of slow string music. I tend to zone out and have surreal, morphine-like daydreams. She won the fight and I was forced to pay an extravagant sum of money for tickets. And on the night of the performance we walked into the place, my wife excited about seeing the Bolshoi or whatever and I desperately hoping they had a bar in the lobby.

The first thing I noticed was the median age of the audience, which I estimate was 94 years old. I elbowed my way to the bar and ordered two drinks, and as an afterthought I asked my wife if she wanted anything. The old people milled about slowly greeting each other. Many of them were carrying opera glasses. I started having flashbacks of the Three Stooges ruining a stuffy affair like this and it broke me from my daze.

When the curtain went up I was absolutely amazed. It wasn’t at all what I expected. In fact it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. It was brilliant. The grace and strength of the dancers was breathtaking and I settled in to enjoy the performance. The next act was still pretty amazing but I was getting antsy. After fifteen minutes I’d seen it all. I wasn’t astute enough to notice all the details or anything and the music started to lull me to dreamland. I wanted another drink. I wanted to go home. And most of all I wanted to physically punish the golf clappers.

The scariest part of the whole thing was the makeup the old ladies in the audience wore. A lot of thick, white pancake makeup is not a good look for a 90 year old woman. All that’s missing is the casket and flowers. Trust me, it’s seriously unsettling.

At intermission I loaded up on scotch. I had seen the ballet. It was amazing all right, but I didn’t have the endurance or the medication needed to sit through another. Since that time I have managed to avoid the expense and punishment of the ballet.

Heed my words.