This weekend we went to see the Metropolitan Opera's Macbeth, live, in high definition at the Jordan Common Cineplex. By "live" they mean in real time. Because sitting in the Cineplex is nothing like sitting in the Metropolitan Opera House in Lincoln Center. You don't get to watch those chandeliers move up and down, or walk up the red carpeted stairway and gawp at Chagall. You don't get to turn back and see the fountain lit up outside the windows. And you don't think, "I'm in NYC, the center of modern civilization."
On the other hand, you have an infinitely more comfortable seat at the Cineplex and it isn't against the back wall of the fifth balcony where people on stage move like Polly Pockets in fancy costume.
There were three couples in the Cineplex in Jordan Common. Usually we go to the theater on 33rd south and State, where the theater is filled with opera lovers. Not here. But all three couples were opera lovers, so there's that.
Near the end of the opera, which was sensational, I reached in my purse for lipstick and smeared it on my lips in the dark. When the lights came on, we spoke with the couple nearest us. I'm all smiles in my full Louise Plummer persona. We walk into the lobby. More smiling. We walk to the car. I get in and look in the mirror and my lips look white. I look like a zombie. Instead of wearing lipstick, I am wearing under eye concealer, which comes in a lipstick-like tube.
I let out a squelched scream. "Why didn't you tell me I had this on my lips?" I say to Tom. "I look like an old whore."
"Oh, I thought your lipstick looked a little light."
A little light? My lipstick looks a little light?
Then I remember he's always been this way. As young marrieds, he didn't see a streak of mascara on my cheek.
I'm the one who gives him the alerts at the mall: "Wow, look at the breasts at two o' clock."
There are advantages in this kind of husband. He loves opera is just one of them.