About a week ago, the school sponsored a free trip to see Les Misérables, and I thought: "Hey, this might be fun. I've always wanted to see French with inexplicably American accents people sing for about how destitute they are."
So I wait in line for a few hours, grab my free ticket, and get ready to hop on the bus. At this point, I realize something.
Everyone is wearing formal attire. Everyone except me. I'm still dressed in the "College Uniform", which is code for "whatever was clean that day". T-Shirt. Shorts. Sandals. Unshaven Chin. Messed up hair.
I am going to Les Mis dressed as Shaggy's slightly overweight cousin.
FUCK.
See, I have a very casual relationship with the theater. We're bros. Back in High School, Theater and I would hang out after school, reading Christopher Durang plays and snickering to each other.
Sure, there were times we'd dress up, but in general it was a pretty casual affair. The past two shows I've been to were a matinée of Wicked, and Monty Python's Spamalot.
But no. Les Mis is special. It's old, which means it's FANCY. Like fermented grape juice.
Granted, this is my fault. I should have known better. I shouldn't be angry.
But I am. You know why?
Because they only mentioned the dress code the day of the show.
On a Facebook post.
Once again, FUCK.
I am fairly confident that one day, I will be evicted from my home because I missed an update on that infernal website. I don't care if the movie about it won an Oscar! For the love of God, you have my phone number! You had a month!
Anyway. Les Mis.
There I am, least dressed person in the theater, the dim lights barely hiding my stubble. I am seriously considering sneaking backstage and mugging Javert for his coat at this point.
And yet, I still look less ridiculous than Thénardier, so I guess it worked out.
