THE SYMPHONY WORKOUT

Jane Fonda, eat your heart out. Sure, some of the big guys are already playing ball in Japan but, for me, baseball season begins when I walk into the stadium. I train for that moment. I need to be in top form for Monday's game when Jackie and I join several friends for a day’s worth of ditching work and other responsibilities where we act like we have nothing better to do than enjoy a few midday drinks, trip over curbs and, for those who partake in such footwear, catch our high heels in sidewalk grates.

So, specifically, you might wonder, what have I done to prepare for baseball season? Last night was a perfect example. I was at the symphony to catch one of the worlds most prodigious pianists in recital.

At intermission, I’d arranged to meet two friends over glasses of champagne, which I’d ordered for all of us before the concert even began (this, so that we wouldn’t have to wait in the intermission line that the rookies queue up in.) All day it drove me crazy that my friends had better seats than my date and I had. We sat in my regular season ticket seats in row FF while my friends were rubbing elbows with the swank patrons in row N – twenty rows closer. As we chat and giggle over our bubbly, I mention once again to my friend that I helped select the better seats and she perks up: “Hey, there are two empty seats right next to us!” (Are you thinking what I was thinking?) “Jen,” I say, in my best incredulous manner. “Do you think we’re at a ballgame, or something? Are you suggesting that we seat hop at the symphony?” How crude! We all shrugged. I looked around the lobby's atrium. Had anyone heard us?

The four of us downed our drinks and proceeded past my bush-league seats in row FF, heading straight for the black Steinway positioned at the middle of the stage. It was like sneaking past that usher at the ballpark and I was nervous. Was someone going to ask for my ticket? I tried to act natural. Head up, D, walk purposefully. Smile and nod. We followed our friends to the plush seats in the middle of row N. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the woman behind me as I handed her the coat that was carelessly tossed over “my” seat. Boy, did I act the part. For the woman behind me, it was like those days at the baseball park when you feel like you’ll have some extra space to spread out your limbs and belongings until some philistine shows up in the fifth inning and asks you to get your feet off of his seat. But, the difference here was that it wasn’t my seat and I was still fool enough to feel entitled.

I’ll spare the suspense because we weren't booted. This doesn’t mean I had fun, of course. I was twitchy nervous between every piece – that’s when the ushers allowed late arrivals into the concert hall. Once a couple stopped at the end of row N and looked at their tickets, counted seats, whispered and pointed. I kept my head down. I did not smile. I did not nod. They walked to an usher before moving along to another section. But it was too late for me. I had already died a thousand deaths.

So, there’s some of my training. It could be said that I faced far worse consequences at the symphony than seat-hoppers face at the ballpark, where such behavior is often tolerated with a wink and a sideways smirk. Still, I found hopping at the symphony is not terribly different from the tactics used at the ballpark. Not that I’ve ever been barbarian enough to pull such a stunt at a ballpark … not as a straight-thinking mature-acting adult, at least. But, if called upon to behave in such a boorish manner, I’m now prepared. Thanks to my rigorous training regimen.