The Worst Day of My Life
Categories: Blogs
Written By: Eric Jensen
If you’re the sort of person who takes time to recover from heartbreak and emotional scarring, you’d better get off this train right now. Can a commercial for McDonald’s reduce you to tears? If so, this isn’t the story for you. If you die a thousand inner deaths each time you lose Ali MacGraw, Mr. Spock and Bambi’s mother, then it would be best for you to just pretend you never heard any of this, because what I’m about to tell you is far worse than all that combined. It’s a story of pain, of suffering, or terrible anguish suffered by a small child at the hands of a cruel universe. It’s a story of bright-eyed youthful dreams dashed to bits like a wayward ship upon a reef, of innocence and naivete decimated by the harsh realities of the world, of the beautiful optimism of a child being extinguished as the circumstances of his life turn his beating heart to stone.
Yes, as you’ve no doubt already guessed, it’s the story of the time that I missed the opportunity to see Sesame Street Live. As a child who spent much of his time in a cable-free environment, the morning PBS children’s programs were the only thing around that could keep me from having to go play outside. I enjoyed Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. I would watch Reading Rainbow, but I always wished that Geordi would just put the books down and go have himself a space adventure. I even watched a show called Zoobilee Zoo, about which I remember virtually nothing, save for the fact that it featured a gay pink fox. But trumping them all was Sesame Street. Why did it receive the number one spot in my heart, despite my fondness for owl puppets, books and effeminate Vulpes vulpes? Quite simply, Sesame Street had it all. There was a monster with an eating disorder, a bird large enough to step on my parents without even noticing and space aliens that communicated solely in “yips,” not to mention that song that counted up to twelve over pinball machine visuals.
So you can imagine my excitement when I found out that it was possible to see all my favorite Sesame Street characters live. For a child of that age, this was like seeing the Rolling Stones live. (In fact, it might even be better than the Stones because I suspect that Keith, in the strictest sense of the word, is probably not technically living.) When I realized that not only did Sesame Street Live exist but it was coming to my town and my grandmother was going to take me, I was more excited than I’d ever been or ever would be again, at least until about a year later when I found out there was going to be a Ninja Turtles movie.
The anticipation was excruciating, far worse than the buildup to something like Christmas. To a child that young, the precise workings of the calendar are largely mysterious, but at least with Christmas you know first comes Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and then you can worry about how naughty or nice you’ve been. But for Sesame Street Live there were no such clear markers along the way. I didn’t really understand how long I’d have to wait and it made the waiting even more unbearable. Of course, such strong anticipation makes the ultimate payoff even more delicious.
Except there was no freaking payoff! When the day finally came, my grandmother and I climbed into her car and drove into destiny. I was brimming over with excitement at the opportunity to see the real Telly Monster and Oscar the Grouch. Would Prairie Dawn be signing autographs? I couldn’t wait!
As I got more and more pumped up about what lay in store, I came to realize that it seemed like we’d been in the car for an awfully long time. It seemed like maybe I should bring this up, so I asked just how much longer it would be until we go there.
“I don’t know,” came the chilling response.
Ultimately, we never got there. Whatever venue they’d chosen for the show was evidently not on my grandmother’s radar. She was never able to find it. We drove around and around looking for the place, but it was not to be. For me, the opportunity to look at Cookie Monster eye-to-eye would have to remain an impossible dream. When the news was broken to me that we’d missed the show entirely, I was crushed. I cried and cried till my crier was sore.
Eventually, though, I stopped crying. But I never got over it. Which is why, even now, if I find myself with the opportunity to attend a Sesame Street Live show, I’ll take it without a second thought. Sure, Sesame Street is a different program now; Elmo’s been promoted from minor monster to star of the show, the segments are longer and less varied and Disney saw to it that Kermit the Frog can never come back. But I won’t care. I’ll go to that puppet show with my head held high, and if some loud braggart tries to put me down I’ll look him square in the eye and say: “Hey! The show may be for kids, but fun is forever.”
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