No One Mourns the Wicked

Last weekend was an exciting milestone in my grown-up life: an official trip to Chicago to see a professional performance of Wicked. To get to Chicago, we had to take a long car ride to the airport to get a train. Oh, and I'm pretty sure we rode a mule at some point to get to a car. No matter. We scurried out of our small town and made it to the big city, navigating our way to the theater without any mishaps. I simply couldn't wait. I knew that Wicked would eventually make its way to our town, though the performance would have to be scaled down to fit into one of our theaters. I had learned the music, did my internet research and I was determined that I would have a stellar Wicked experience. And I did. I was charmed and amused, not even deterred by the poor woman in the seat next to mine who evidently had contracted an unfortunate winter case of poison oak and who had to scratch her leg nearest me approximately once every three seconds. A pleasant trip to the merry ol' land of Oz is recommended for one and all, particularly if you can see it in one of those fancified big-city theaters.