Last weekend I found myself contemplating the actual legal ramifications of yelling FIRE in a crowded theater. It was at the Kennedy Center during “The Book of Mormon” — where 20 minutes in– I realized that the first interminable nineteen weren’t just anomalies.
Don’t get me wrong, it had nothing with the outrageous-ness or the far-reaching offensiveness. I was fine with those.
It was the jazz hands.
I hate musicals.
And the ones with monotonous dance numbers are my own special hell. Even if the national consensus is that they’re hysterical. (For the record, I never thought Bill Cosby was funny either. Just sayin.)
Granted I maybe should have done a touch of research before agreeing that this particular field trip sounded like a fabulous family outing. But at least I’ve reached that point in life where I no longer stiff upper lip things I don’t have to. When my relatives raced back to their seats after intermission, I stayed in the lobby. And was amazed by how much faster time went by in the cavernous, silent space.
I forfeited my stupidly expensive ticket and ended up with the best seat in the house.