I’m at Chicago’s Auditorium Theater, about to see David Sedaris. Hear David Sedaris. Enjoy David Sedaris.
I feel, about this, like a teenage girl might feel about seeing a heart throb pop singer. At a concert, that teenage girl might jump and sing and cry and scream. I suspect Mr. Sedaris would be most alarmed if I were to behave this way. His security team would probably escort me from this beautiful venue, leaving vacant the sixth row seat my sweet husband procured for me.
I am considering going back out to the lobby to pay $3 so I can check my enthusiasm with the coats. Otherwise, how can I hope to remain composed in the presence of a man who is a writerly hero to me? David Sedaris writes memoir essays laced with truth and sarcasm and humor. He occupies space on bookstore shelves that I covet. I fantasize of being like him. In some ways, at least. Someday.
The show is about to begin. It is too late to go to the coat check. I am going to have to make myself quiet for this evening. I will swell in the moments between his oral essays, and I will applaud and cheer more loudly than the rest. Then I will be quiet again.