After the fourth costume change of Olivia Newton-John's concert, Donna turned to me and said, "Stop. Sit!"
I sat, stuck in the blue denim long-sleeves and khakis for the remainder of the evening.
And I was going to wear pleather.
Following the show, I collected my discarded brown shoes, assorted tux shirts, striped pants, and "Xanadu" skates from beneath our chairs on row DD.
I located the cummerbund and one argyle sock back on row LL, proud I must have some impressive swing.
I did glimpse a mezzanine usher parading about in my sparkly bow tie, but I said nothing. He'd only want to know how to make it spin.
Cramming the last pocket square and cowboy hat into my "Totally Hot" duffel bag, Donna remarked, "You know, we have tickets for these very same seats to see Brian Regan."
"What? You are kidding me."
"No," she said, "I compared the numbers at the house. We'll be parked right here in three weeks."
"How about that," I adlibbed. I, too, can be remarkable. "We ought to do something."
"What do you mean?"
"Um, we could leave a note from the Mike and Donna of today for the Mike and Donna of the future!"
"Of ... the ... future. That would blow their minds! We could tape the note underneath," she plotted. "Do you think they would look under these seats?"
"You know me and gum."
"Let's do it," Donna said, digging through her purse for a pen and paper. "What should we write?"
"I got it. How 'bout: 'HEY, DURRETTS! YOU SUCK!'"
Donna squealed with glee, then, "Perfect!" She scribbled away, using my shoulder as a desk.
"Don't sign it. Keep us guessing."
"LOL!" she laughed out loud.
I rolled around on the floor, assed off, bumped into the elusive argyle, taped up the note, rolled out to the car, and drove home.
