The Gift of Your Misery

If you know me personally or read my last blog (which you wouldn’t have unless you knew me personally, so I guess I could have omitted the second half of this opening sentence intro), you know I’m a bit of a theater geek. One of the things I miss most about living in NYC--and the main thing that kept me living there a few years past the point of me being kind of over NYC--is the nearly limitless supply to all the plays, musicals, comedy, dance, and other performing arts. Which isn’t to say that Chicago doesn’t have its fair share of live entertainment, but it certainly pales in comparison.

Remus is not much of a theater fan, to put it mildly, which isn’t surprising--I’m fully aware that it’s not for everyone, and heterosexual men seem to be the least interested demographic (based on my completely personal and non-researched experiences). In an attempt to introduce him to one of my favorite worlds, but conscious of his aversion to the medium, in the earlier days of our relationship I brought him to a selection of shows I thought he might at least somewhat enjoy (sorry Rodgers and Hammerstein--ya burnt!). The most well received outing was to a Cirque du Soleil show, primarily because so many of their gravity-defying feats can potentially lead to catastrophic injuries.

Since the likelihood of bodily harm isn’t particularly high in most theatrical experiences, I resigned myself to the fact that I’d being going to see most shows on my own, which is fine. I was single until I was 34 and have always been kind of crap at making friends; doing stuff I like solo is not a new concept.

For my most recent birthday, Remus gifted me with a card featuring a comically large cat that resembled his comically large cat that I affectionately refer to as “fatty girl,” inscribed with the promise of dinner, drinks, and tickets to a show of my choosing that he would “pretend to enjoy.”

His thinking: Wolfie likes musicals and shit, so taking her to see one of those is a good gift.

My thinking: He’s giving me the gift of his misery.

Don’t get me wrong; show tickets for a theater geek is always a good gift, and it was incredibly generous of him to offer to do something he wouldn’t particularly be into solely because I would enjoy it. But I couldn’t get past the fact that my night of enjoyment would basically be a night of mild torture for him (depending on what show I chose), and--despite my asshole-like tendencies--I’m actually not happy when the people I care about are unhappy.

I protested that he didn’t have to accompany me to something he wasn’t interested in, that I was perfectly happy to go alone to the shows I wanted to see, but he was adamant.

“Going to shows makes you happy, and I want you to be happy, so for one night I can join you in something that makes you happy. Just make sure you pick a good restaurant for the dinner part of the evening.”

Fucking nice guys, am I right?

I ultimately decided on us getting tickets to the upcoming Broadway tour of Cabaret, a musical I like that features scantily-clad showgirls, Nazis, and a subplot about abortion. It’s not as good as trapeze artists potentially plummeting to their deaths, but hopefully he’ll get something out of it.