Wednesday, August 6, 2008
How I Gave My Regards to Broadway
Did you catch my show on Broadway? Because it got rave reviews. I was walking up Broadway last night. (Yes, that Broadway with the bright lights and the a-cha-cha-chah.) And I made the mistake of walking on the subway grate. Right then, the W train arrived right below where I was walking. My skirt blew up over my head, and everyone on Broadway and 22nd Street saw my underpants. And not my fancy underpants, mind you. But my $6.99 at Target, three-in-a-pack pink granny panties.
Most women would have been mortified and tried to cover themselves in some way. But not me. I was on Broadway after all. I broke into song. You're probably thinking "Hey, Big Spender" or something grand and fitting like that. But, no, it was "Master of the House" from Les Miserables. Because, why not, after all? Why not? It was the only song I could think of in such short notice. Had I gone commando, I might have done something from Chicago, but granny panties warrant something a little bit special. Don't you think? Since "Master of the House" is technically a duet, I just gave myself a puppet hand and threw my voice a little for Monsieur Thénardier's part.
Naturally, afterward, I ended up waiting for about 20 minutes on the subway platform with the good people of New York who had just witnessed my panty flashing extravaganza. I'm sure that every single one of them used that time to formulate how exactly to entertain their friends with their "Hey, guess what I just saw?" story when they got to where they were going. Some of them may have started it off like, "Oh my god, you guys!" Someone more creative might have said, "So I was just minding my own business when..." and then twist the story around, turning the sudden appearance of panties into the anecdotal equivalent of a stripper popping out of a gigantic cake. Then, of course, there would be those people who would have nothing polite to say about my thighs or lack of a bikini waxing or whatever. You know the type, groundlings with no taste in good theater. Always with the criticism.
Of course, when things like this happen, we all like to pretend it was a total Marilyn Monroe moment. Like you stepped on the subway grate and everyone walking by was just lucky to witness it. Maybe you skip on like nothing happened at all, nonchalantly popping a Mentos and smiling like you just finished the swimsuit part of the competition. The hot wind of the subway was simply the hand of God raising up your dress to show the world that you are, indeed, a woman. Not just any woman, but a woman with slightly hairy legs and thrifty taste in underpants! And not to mention a devil-may-care attitude toward unfortunate circumstances. Was the smiling Derek Jeter cologne advertisement simply my Joe DiMaggio, looking on in amusement? We can all pretend so.
And so, in my own small way, I took Broadway by storm. I gave them the old razzle-dazzle. And just twenty blocks shy of 42nd Street. Next time, I'll be doing it on skates. Be sure to book your tickets well in advance.
Now, I take my bow.
Bravo, then. Bravo. Encore. And all that jazz. Ah-cha.