A night at the opera, she an I

My sweetie and I went to the opera “Fedora” at the Met last Saturday — she loves opera and I love her so it was a deal, though she blanched at the price of tickets — “We could fly back to Minnesota for the price of two seats on the main floor,” she exclaimed. “But the flight attendants wouldn’t be singing,” I said. “And if they did, we’d want them to stop. Hang the expense.”

So we went. I was proud of ordering the seats on my cellphone and saving them in email, a first for me. I’ve always used paper ducats. I am 80. I am one of the 2 percent of Americans who know what the word “ducat” means. (It’s pronounced “duck it,” my children, in case you’re curious.) So it was exciting crossing the plaza of Lincoln Center, cellphone in hand, wondering as we entered the opera house if, when I clicked on my email, the ticket code would appear or would we be thrown bodily out onto the street.

The ticket code appeared. It was the highlight of my day, as it turned out.

I had never seen “Fedora” — in fact, I’ve never seen an opera about a hat — and when we took our seats I found that the plot summary in the program was in tiny type like the fine print you don’t read in the purchase agreement and that the English subtitles on the little screen in front of me were unreadable — which meant that I was in the dark for all three acts, no idea what was going on or why, but it was okay, I imagined the turmoil onstage was my family gathering at a mortuary for a funeral and it sort of made sense, though my relatives never raise their voices and aren’t fluent in Italian, but how can you appreciate the arts if you don’t use your imagination, and anyway my sweetheart was having a fine time. She could read the subtitles and sat beside me, laughing. Apparently, “Fedora” is funny.

Intermission came along and she asked if I was enjoying it and I said, “Yes, but I have no idea what it’s about.”

“You don’t know that the Count died whom Fedora was supposed to marry?”

“I didn’t even know he was sick,” I said.

I am okay with sitting through long things I don’t comprehend. I majored in English and often wasn’t sure if we were talking about Dickens or Moby-Dick or Emily Dickinson, and so it’s no problem to sit through an opera. At least there’s music and scenery and costumes, which we didn’t have in the classroom.

The third act did drag somewhat. We’re suddenly in Switzerland, the Alps in the background — I’m expecting the soprano to come out in a dirndl and sing “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” I wished an animal’d come onstage, a horse maybe, a dog. And to be perfectly frank, I was aware that I was in a crowd of elderly people, many of them even older than myself.

I wish my social life were not spent entirely with people who’ve recently had a hip replacement or are scheduled for a colonoscopy on Wednesday. I’d like to know some people who are still trying to find themselves. I have no trans friends, mine are transitioning toward assisted living. It’s one thing I love about church, the little kids, the acolytes process up the aisle, teenagers carrying candles, excellent posture, properly solemn: somehow it makes me happy.

We headed up the aisle with the lame and the halt, and my cellphone dinged and I opened it, there was a text from Carin our financial advisor: “Did you just spend five hundred bucks to go to the opera?”

“Yes,” I said. She said, “Don’t go out to a restaurant, please, and don’t take a cab. Take a bus.” Our investment in the granite quarry in New Hampshire had bottomed out and also our stock in the holistic spa in Hoboken.

My sweetie wanted to go to a bakery on Broadway and buy a baguette. I said, “We have hamburger buns at home.” We walked home. It was good for us. So we’re living low on the hog this week. It’s Maxwell House Instant for us, not Mazatlán mocha, and bran flakes and Creamettes and cheese. Not gourmet cheese but Cheez Whiz. If you enjoyed this column and could see your way clear to — no, never mind — I’ll be just fine.