This Is How We Celebrate

"I'm a good daughter, don't listen to that inner voice. I am a good daughter." Oh, yeah, I talk to myself...constantly.

Yesterday I looked into the abyss that is "old age". It's taken me until now, the medication has taken effect, to summon the courage to relate my experience.

At 7:30am, I left my home and began preparations for accompanying 78 year old, Nana, to the American Music Theatre's Christmas Extravaganza. Nana had paid for the tickets months ago with her credit card, which I used when calling for the reservations. Apparently, I use the telephone, very, very well. I got seats in the "special" aisle row in the balcony. We need the aisle row because there are no steps to negotiate, and Nana uses a walker. The American Music Theatre is set up for the geriatric and the infirm (not one in the same, but not mutually exclusive either). At any given performance, looking over the crowd from above, it looks like a sea of cotton balls, punctuated by the occasional gleam of a bald pate, or the unnatural orange of a die job gone bad.

The show began at 10:30am. "Why", you ask, "did you need to leave three hours ahead when Nana lives four miles away and the theatre is a mere 30 minutes from Nana's home? Were you walking?" No. First, I did Nana's weekly grocery shopping, which consists of 14 cans of cat food, various frozen dinners, and a quart of milk. She does indeed own a cat, have no fear. The shopping is always done on Wednesday, and even though we were going "away", that wasn't cause to make an exception. Most weeks, Nana comes along and takes me to breakfast. She always pays...because I "do so much".

The shopping took about 30 minutes. I then proceeded to Nana's, put away the groceries and took out the trash. Another 20 minutes, max. Nana swapped walkers. She has her indoor walker, which is identical to the outdoor walker that she keeps at my home and I cart back and forth on the days we go out. She doesn't like to use her indoor walker, outdoors. It will get dirty and ruined. She is convinced that her walker's wheels were destroyed going into and out of her granddaughters home...about twice a year. There is an exceedingly rough patch to negotiate over the gravel parking area. She also ruins her wheels navigating the "damaged" sidewalk leading to her condo.

It takes a few minutes to go down the steps. She still, very bravely, has to do steps when we go out. Her condo is on one floor, but there is a private entrance and that involves steps. We get to the car and load up Nana and her walker, and we're off. We must have spent more time that we anticipated "getting organized" because we arrive at the theatre at 9:15am. This allows us to choose a prime handicapped parking space. But, not first choice, as there are a whole lot of people that got there ahead of us. We sit in the car talking (I speak to this woman at least two times a day, everyday, there's not a lot of news), mostly about celebrities, because the theatre doesn't open till 9:30. And even if you go in then, you can't go to your seat until about 20 min. before the show. It's reserved seating, but you'd be surprised how important it is to be first in line.

At 10:00 we make our way inside, take the elevator to the balcony and find our seats, after admiring the beautiful Christmas decorations. It's the beginning of November. I'm practicing my deep yoga breathing. I need to park, "Jenny", Nana's walker out in the lobby, and before I can get back to my seat I'm blocked by massive groups of slowly moving, bitching, old people. It's too hot, too cold, too far, too dark. They can't see the seat numbers on the tickets. They're huffing, and groaning. Thankfully, no one is collapsing, and I know it's taking me too long to get back to my seat and Nana. But, I'm stopped, I have to wait in line, even though I've been to my seat and my tickets have been confirmed. You don't ever, even give the appearance, of cutting in front of a group of seniors. They are daunting.

I finally see my opening and excuse my way past the hoards. Nana greets me with, "That took you a long time, did you stop at the bathroom?" My frequency of use is of great fascination. I either go too often or not often enough, and always at inappropriate times, apparently. I'm serious. Nana reminds me to use the facilities before we leave the house. I am 52. I will "hold it" till my bladder explodes.

Even the ushers at the theatre are elderly. But very nice, for the most part, and equipped with flashlights and reading glasses. There's nothing they, personally, can do about the temperature or the wheezing. But, they placate with programs and coming attraction information. Finally, the lights dim, fashionably late, and the show begins. The only thing that can save me now, is that I actually like Christmas music. I do. My eyes tear up over "The Little Drummer Boy", even Whiteheart's rendition.

So, in spite of the tacky decorations, the obligatory soprano, the bad hair piece on one of the featured male singers, and the strong resemblance to a Lawrence Welk show, there are things I enjoy. I liked the fiddler. I appreciated the costumes, although not of my taste, or anyone's taste unless they are older than 65 and attending a formal wedding. The piano player was real good. But, the nymphet dancers where not to my liking, and when they donned animal costumes, I started repeating the "om mm" to supplement the deep breathing. I cringed when the ventriloquist appeared, but he turned out to be OK. The long, boring, embarrassing skit where two grown people portrayed obnoxious children, a la Lilly Tomlin, and the Elvis impersonator sent me into hyperventilation. If I would have had one, I would have been breathing into a paper bag. The "om mm" was now a silent scream.

But, I've lived to tell the tale. Almost. After the show, Nana insisted on a "good dinner" at the local Old Folks Restaurant. The prices are to die for, the food is from cans. She always insists that I get a "good meal". This is translated: "Order what I tell you too...or die...!" Oh, yes, I can be intimidated. By a geriatric nazi. She is a dictator...and I am her cowed, brainwashed, sniveling, daughter. I get the damned flounder. But, some how manage to convey to the waitress, without Nana's knowledge, that I want the "smaller portion". Thank god. It's all I can do to choke that down!

Dinner over...we head for home. Nana seems content. That makes me content. Maybe this will be the last year, and a happy memory...or I'll do it again...'cause I'm a wuss.