A Chorus Line has always been, and will always be, my favorite musical. Period.

I love other ones—the music in Aida was grand, I don't think I ever stopped smiling in Chicago, and Fosse...well, Fosse made me want to jump in and out of costumes, and characters, all day long.

But ever since I was little, it was A Chorus Line. Yes, I wanted to be a dancer (I think it's safe to say that almost every little girl wants to be one), but it was more than that. Even at a young age, I understood that you had two choices in life: you could take a chance and do what your heart and soul desired or you could go with the flow. One choice meant a life filled with the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. The other meant consistency. I easily empathized, and identified, with the dancers in A Chorus Line. I understood what they faced and felt...and I applauded them. I knew, at age 10 or 11 or however old I was when I first saw the show, I didn't have the guts to do it—to take on rejection, be judged, fail to make it in the eyes of others—just to pursue a dream and do something outside the "norm." I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. But I didn't know how. I didn't know how to go for it and I didn't know how to deal with it. So I rooted for those that could (and did)...from the comfort of my assigned seat in the audience. 

My Granny took me to see A Chorus Line at the Orpheum in downtown Minneapolis. I'm not sure exactly how old I was but I wasn't old enough to know what gonorrhea, boob jobs, or homosexuality were...or care enough to ask. It was my first real theater experience and I loved every second of it. And I know Granny loved it too. I remember her getting a kick out of the "Tits and Ass" song. I could literally feel her joy as she laughed her unique laugh throughout the number. (To this day, when my brother perfectly imitates her laugh, it takes me back to that moment.) And I remember the feeling I had when the show was over and the side doors of the theater, which deposited patrons directly onto the sidewalk, were thrown wide open. Granny must have taken me to a matinée because as we left the natural darkness of the theater and stepped outside, I was shocked by the brightness of the natural light, even on a gray, Minnesota-winter afternoon, and was forced to shield my eyes, still wide in awe over the experience. But in my blindness, I was giddy. I wanted to run up and down the sidewalk and tell passersby what a brilliant show it was, what an experience it was, and how lucky and special I felt to have had my Granny right there beside me. At that time, I didn't know why it was so special that Granny had taken me. But I knew it was.

Last night I was giddy again. Hopping up and down like the little girl I was more than 25 years ago, I had that same damn happy feeling as I walked into the Ahmanson Theatre in downtown L.A. to see A Chorus Line once again. This time I was with my hubby, Emmett, and our friends, Kelly and Bill. From the second Zach shouted, "Five, six, seven, eight," lights bursting on, dancers—all legs and arms and personality—filling the stage…to the last sparkly, glittery-gold number—all lights and mirrors and tightly performed steps in perfect unison—I was flooded with memory and emotion. Words to songs I never knew I knew came out of me number by number. Dancers whose names I had long forgotten rolled off the tip of my tongue as each made their way on stage and I whispered into Emmett's ear what I liked and didn't like about their character.  And when I walked out of that theater at the end of the show, the faux darkness that comes with urban life was a sharp contrast to the pure glow and warmth within me. Who cares if the actor playing Zach sucked. Who cares if the Ahmanson Theater's decor was bland compared to that of the glamorous Orpheum. Who cares if, in our group of four, only Bill and I were oozing orgasmic pleasure, quoting line after line, jumping in and around and through the stories of the 17 dancers. He was just as in love with the concept of A Chorus Line as I. It was almost like having Granny right there with me. Almost. Except this time, I knew what gonorrhea, boob jobs, and homosexuality were...but I still didn't care enough to care.

I don’t know what Granny told her friends about our Chorus Line experience. I'm not sure what she would have written in her journal, had she had one, or blog, had it been invented yet. But as we walked to the bus stop after the show, my hand firmly yet tenderly held by hers, I know this: people PARTED for us. Like Moses and the Red Sea. When we walked by, they stepped aside. They moved out of our way. Some even took a look back over their shoulder as we passed. We didn't duck or dodge or maneuver our way through the crowd like we normally did. We walked. Straight. Like we were stepping up to the line. With nothing and no one in our way. It was, indeed, one singular sensation.