By Francesca
I’m back on the dating scene and getting reacquainted with the art of presenting myself to new people.
The art of seduction begins with introduction.
Be open but don’t ramble. Keep it light but keep it real. Be decisive, but let him lead.
Now if someone could just remind me what any of that means.
It shouldn’t be this hard. I write about myself for a living, I ought to be able to tell a few winning stories about myself. But my only objective in writing to you, dear reader, is to make you laugh. I’m not trying to sleep with you.
Not necessarily.
I recently started seeing someone new, we’ve been on a handful of dates, and I like him so far. We had plans to go to dinner and a movie last Friday, but at 6:30 P.M. that night, I still hadn’t heard from him about which movie he picked, so I texted him.
“Sorry, I took a nap and just woke up,” he replied. “Can we do Saturday instead?”
I had firm plans to stay in Saturday night, but I couldn’t tell him why. The truth would reveal one of my dorkiest passions, not a fifth-date kind of revelation. Typically, I’ll let you see me naked before I tell you this. But here goes:
I love Gilbert & Sullivan.
For those who got laid in high school, William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan are the nineteenth-century writing team behind a series of comic operas. Their humor is satirical, heavy on wordplay, and aimed at lampooning Victorian England and mocking theatrical clichés of their day.
I know, I can’t believe they fell out of favor either.
But take my word for it, Gilbert & Sullivan created some of the most beautiful classical music you will ever hear, and much of the humor is still relevant today.
Plus, the lyrics really improved my SAT Verbal score.
I was a member of the Gilbert & Sullivan Players in college, a group deemed nerdy even by Harvard standards, and I remain a fan.
Luckily, I don’t have to be a dork alone. My closest guy friend is equally fanatic about G&S, so when he found a Facebook group called “Gilbert & Sullivan Sunday Singing Group,” we both joined. This Sunday, they were singing through The Mikado, my favorite production. By overselling our talents via email, my friend had managed to get himself cast in the title role and me as the soprano lead, Yum-Yum.
Have I completely lost you? We’re not allowed to sit at the same lunch table anymore, are we? It’s okay, I understand, I’ll eat this in the girls’ bathroom.
So Saturday night I needed vocal rest and a good night’s sleep before my performance. Although I was loath to admit it, I cared about this silly sing-along, a lot.
Singing Yum-Yum would serve some deep-seated psychological validation. When my high school did Mikado, I was cast as Yum-Yum’s understudy. I practiced for hours, relishing every moment of rehearsals, fantasizing about performing the role. Of course, I never got to go on. This was my big chance to show the world I could do it.
Look who’s singing in a living room in Brooklyn now, bitches!
I couldn’t risk ruining my voice over drinks and conversation with a handsome dude.
This may be why I am single.
I felt lame twice over. First, because I got canceled on last minute, apparently losing out to the allure of a nap, and secondly, because I had such an uncool hobby. If this guy hadn’t lost interest in me already, he sure would if I was honest with him, I thought.
So I lied, and vaguely said I had other plans.
I was true to myself, just not truthful to him.
Thankfully, by the time Sunday arrived, any boy trouble spinning in my brain was replaced by nervous excitement. My friend and I enjoyed a brunch of hot tea with honey and rode the subway together to Brooklyn, reassuring each other we were going to be great—just great!—as we fidgeted the whole way.
We arrived at an old brownstone near Prospect Park and walked up several creaking flights of stairs. When we arrived at the right floor, one door was ajar, and the sound of easy conversation wafted into the hallway.
Inside, the air was warm and humid, as ten or so people, most over the age of sixty, filled the small apartment. At first, my friend and I walked in all but unnoticed, but once we started introducing ourselves, everyone stopped to look at us. My friend asked about available scores, I went to get a glass of water, opening all the wrong cabinets until the hostess intervened, and we took our seats in the living room, shuffling our music on our laps.
Conversation had slowed to a trickle.
Then I understood. We were making them nervous.
Either with our youth or our foreignness, we had invaded their safe space. In our skinny jeans, we looked like the young, judgy idiots that most “cool” people under thirty usually are.
Little did they know.
“So,” I said, hoping to break the ice, “how did we all get into G&S?”
I shared that I’ve been listening to the music since I was in the womb, thanks to my mother, and recounted that when my high school announced our spring musical was The Mikado, I was the only fifteen-year-old to fist-pump and cry, “YES!”
That a got a laugh.
“Are you a student in college now?” asked one man.
“No, I’m twenty-eight,” I said with a wince. “But thanks!”
He shrugged, as if it made no difference.
My friend told about how we met in college, when we were both in the chorus of Pirates of Penzance, and how he almost dropped me on my head during the choreography.
“I survived,” I said, “and we’ve been friends ever since.”
Having established our credentials, the rest of the room opened up. One man talked about learning the music in elementary school.
“They used to teach this music in schools, in our day,” he said.
“My son played the Major General in Pirates when he was at sleepaway camp,” said one woman.
“Does he still like singing in shows?” I asked.
“He doesn’t perform anymore. He’s forty now and lives in New Jersey.”
Another woman shared a picture of herself in costume for Yum-Yum with members from this very group, and, judging from their hairstyles, it looked like it was taken in the seventies. She said, “This was before my second marriage, do you remember that, Frances?”
I began to understand that these people had been meeting up for Gilbert & Sullivan committee meetings, sing-alongs, and all the friendship in between, for well over thirty years. They’d seen each other through marriages, and second marriages, and children growing old.
And they had done it singing.
I couldn’t think of anything cooler.
Everyone had an assigned role, and we sang through the entire opera, including the dialogue scenes, with a short intermission to snack on watermelon, cheese, and—not for the faint of heart—smoked oysters.
None of us were professional singers, but what we lacked in talent, we made up for in enthusiasm. The spirit of the room was encouraging and supportive. I blushed the time when I didn’t quite make a high note, but everyone clapped at the end anyway. And I was impressed at how these once-shy adults sang out at full volume. Normally I’m so shy about my neighbors hearing me, I don’t sing at full volume in my own shower. The Gilbert & Sullivan Sunday Singers left the door open.
By the time my friend and I said our goodbyes and promises to return, my voice was hoarse.
On the train ride home, I saw that the guy who canceled had texted me to make plans the following week—maybe he did like me after all. Still, I’m not sure I’ll follow up.
I might be too cool for him.