For those who haven’t guessed, I am a mature woman of a certain age that will remain confidential.  Let’s just say that I now introduce my daughter as my little sister and my granddaughter as my daughter, much to their chagrin but my delight if I am believed.

The three of us-daughter and granddaughter-had looked forward to our trip to Seattle to see Mama Mia at the 5^th Ave. Playhouse.  It was my granddaughter’s very generous treat. 

Fortune was with us when the long awaited day arrived.  It was crisp and clear, beautiful.   As foot passengers, we boarded the Bainbridge ferry travelling to the busy Port of Seattle.  The sailing was on calm waters, unlike the trip from Victoria to Port Angelus.  My green-faced daughter had barely survived the rock and roll of the seas and kissed the solid ground upon her arrival in Pt. Angelus.

There are four very steep hills from the Seattle pier to 5^th Ave.  Undaunted, we climbed each block leisurely and enjoyed all the sites especially the beauty of the older buildings’ ornate facades. 

The girls had never been to the Playhouse before and were surprised at its charming vintage.  My daughter took many photos of the Oriental design that made the theatre so unique.  Its’ vintage became very evident with the location of the lavatories.   The men’s was on main floor and the ladies’ was located in the basement.

We milled around with the large, exuberant crowd until the doors to the seating areas were opened.  We found our seats in the middle of row x located in the centre of the theatre.  They were perfect seats, thanks to my granddaughter’s selection. The girls left their oversized bags with me and went off to explore more of the theatre.  I relaxed into my seat and revelled in the excited anticipation of the audience buzzing around me.

The seats filled up quickly. An older couple and middleaged man in a ball cap crawled over the numerous people on my left and stopped where I was seated. The older lady exclaimed that their seats were not together even though they had bought sequentially numbered seats and could not understand how it was that I was seated in the middle of what she thought were their purchased seats. 

The younger man, ball cap still on,  asked to see my ticket to confirm my location while his older companions growled. 

I brightly chirruped that we were in row X and did not attempt to find the tickets buried in the bowels of my granddaughter’s purse.   The man hissed that I was in row w not x. 

An embarrassed chuckle escaped my lips as I said “I am an usher at a theatre” and added that I wondered how many people I had steered to the wrong seats.  My attempt at a humourous diversion failed miserably.

Not a crinkle of a smile creased the disgruntled grimaced faces of the displaced people.

I looked in both directions and noted every seat was occupied.  This meant that I’d have to crawl over all those people in row w and row x to get to our correct seats.

Throwing caution and decorum to the winds and without much thought as to my age or gender,  I tossed our bags back to the our correct seats directly behind me, and prepared to climb over.

The ladies in the row x behind me, being  my age or 10 years younger, had comprehended my intention, they were most impressed.    

The older displaced couple were still scowling and offered no help whatsoever. Their younger companion, the lout who was still wearing his baseball cap, anticipated my move and said “That’s what I would do”.   As if that were a recommendation! 

Although tempted to be oppositional and remain planted in his seat, I proceeded with my plan. All went without a hitch until my foot got wedged between the seat and backrest.  The lout looked shocked, remained silent.  ‘Stunned’ would be the appropriate word to describe him at that point.  As I had recently rescued a grandson who had his whole body wedged in a seat, I managed quickly to dislodge my foot.  

Freed, I finished hopping over while tossing a comment to the lout that I was all ‘grace and elegance’.  He was not duly impressed nor did not ask for my phone number!  Asking for my number would have required his stringing together a sentence of more than three words, a challenge he could not possibly make. 

The ladies behind clapped for me as I planted myself in the proper seats.  They offered me congratulations, and marvelled at my dexterity.  I humbly mumbled that I attended exercise class at the local senior centre.

 With my head one row closer to them, I asked if it was in their field of vision.  “NO” they said, “we like your head!”  They did not ask my name let alone ask for my phone number either.

The play was outstanding and we, along with most of the audience, were dancing in our places and singing along with the chorus during the play’s finale.

Glancing at the folks whose seats we had innocently taken I noted that they  were still seated. Their faces had slightly changed from very annoyed to neutral and their younger companion still had his ball cap on.  I did not ask for his number!

Written by Carol Fyfe-Wilson.

Carol is a mother of 6 with 5 boys, 3 of whom were adopted; one was Canadian born and the other 2 were from 3rd world counties and those 2 have moderate to profound ADD.

Her formal  education focused on Psychology  and Sociology. For the last 20 years she worked as an academic and behavioral  support person within 4 B.C school districts and one college. She also sat as a Fetal Alcohol Syndrome steering committee and was a resource person for special needs adoptive parents.

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