“God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me” (Genesis 21:6).

This year, my favorite Christmas present was a date with my son to see a touring Broadway production of Tootsie.

You’ve heard people say, “I don’t get out much”? Say “hello” to the poster child. Having moved out of state during COVID, this was my first public performance in nearly two years, and I was like a giggly girl getting ready for the prom. I carefully planned every aspect of my wardrobe, beginning with a black sweater dress to which I’d add a bold necklace of multicolored beads. I may have even sung a few measures of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s, “I Enjoy Being a Girl!”

I do enjoy being a girl, but I was clearly out of practice. Nothing went as planned. It rained all day, and my hair frizzed itself into tendrils of overcooked rotini. Then I put on the sweater dress, and my “dwarf” critics–Frumpy, Dumpy, Bumpy, and Yuck—mocked me.

After that harsh critique, I yanked out every black garment in my closet. I tried on all sorts of combinations, some of which looked worse than the original, adding “schlumpy” and “grumpy” to the dwarf brigade. Not surprisingly, my bed became a mound of black cloth, reminiscent of a Halloween clearance sale.

But determination won, and I finally had an ensemble. I strove for “amazing,” but, at this point, I settled for “not bad.” Next, it was hose, which I hadn’t worn since 2020 BC (before COVID). Amidst my stash, I found a brand-new pair of black silky, slinky, sheers. Perfect. However, they not only had tummy control, but also seemed to have whole-body control. Even my toes felt constricted. I couldn’t do it. I’d be sitting all evening, and I knew I’d be miserable. So I tossed the panty hose into the ever-growing pile of black. 

But, never fear: my trusty stash turned up a pair of unworn thigh-highs. I rationalized that, If they were tight, I’d only be squeezed in the thighs. Much to my delight, they were the most comfortable thigh-highs I’d ever worn, and they were the perfect complement to my sassy black pumps. Finally, a triumph—or so I thought.

Then it was accessory time. Because my necklace was big and bold, I picked out tasteful little studs for my ears. What I hadn’t counted on, however, is that one of those demure little stones would take an unauthorized dive down the bathroom drain. Playing dress-up just isn’t as fun as it used to be. Settling once again for “not bad,” I was finally ready to go. Let the fun begin.

My son looked handsome and pleasantly edgy, and I’ll wager he put zero effort into his “look.” We parked about six blocks away from the theatre, and, after walking a couple blocks, I felt the most disengaging sensation. It felt like slippery eels slithering down my legs. I looked down and was horrified. The “eels” were my black thigh-highs sliding down the white poles of my legs. I was thankful they hadn’t been tight, but I never imagined this!

“Um, Michael, could we stop for a second?” “Look,” I said. He was taken aback and let out some embarrassed chuckles. I, on the other hand, was ugly crying through shrieks of laughter. Now I had mascara smudges that coordinated with my “eels and heels.” And I assure you I was no longer singing, “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”

Gentleman that he is, Michael stood in front of me, so I could discreetly pull up my hose. Problem solved? Yes—for about ten seconds. Then down they fell down again for Round Two of the Slithering Eel.

“When we get to the theatre, you can just take them off, ” Michael suggested.

“Ugh, I think that would be worse.” I explained that my splotched, milky-white, aging legs were just not ready for prime time. Nope. Couldn’t do that.

Then the always encouraging Michael said, “You know it really doesn’t look that bad. It almost looks like you’re wearing ankle boots.” And, doggone it—it did. The hose had politely arranged themselves in a neat circle above my black pumps. Yes, it looked for the world like I was wearing ankle boots.

I went with this plan and assumed an air of confidence that said, “You mean you never heard of rolling your hose around your ankle to create the look of a boot? Read Cosmo. It’s a thing.” I was feeling so much better. I even thought, “Maybe I’ll do this on purpose next time.”

We arrived at the theatre where we were seated in Row W. Although this was the orchestra section, it meant there were 22 rows of bobbleheads obstructing our view.  And the gentleman directly in front of us could have played center for the Chicago Bulls. But…voila…we got our Christmas miracle. Just as the overture began, Mr. Basketball and his date slid over two seats, leaving us a completely unhindered view of the stage. That never happens—it was our own parting of the Red Sea. Simultaneously, we both did fist pumps and whispered “Yesss!”

At intermission, the next round of antics ensued. Unknowingly, I had dropped my glossy program booklet. So, when I stood up, I was slip-sliding around like a clown on ice. After another bout of hysterical laughter, my body, not surprisingly, screamed, restroom. Unfortunately, some 400 other women heard the same scream. Seriously, one women’s restroom for a whole theatre full of dainty bladders? Given the length of the line, you’d think we were headed to Bloomingdale’s after-Christmas sale.

Amazingly, the line moved rather quickly. There was actually someone inside the restroom directing “traffic” to various stalls. What lucky employee drew that straw? And, whew…she was good. I made it back to my seat just as the curtain went up. Nothing like a well-choreographed pee pee shuffle.

The show was terrific, but the offstage shenanigans were the highlight of the evening. It’s a beautiful thing: laughter. It’s a great connector, a proven stress reliever, and leads to memories that make you laugh all over again. The wardrobe challenges, the frizzy hair, the smudged mascara: I wouldn’t change a thing. A laughing face is more beautiful than an airbrushed face any day. “Black eels” are my new fashion statement. Ditsy-ness is my superpower. And the accidental gift of laughter is my heart’s treasure.