A funny thing happened to me a while ago (and I was recently reminded about it and thought I would share…)

My sister called me, “Hey, what are you doing on Friday night next week? My boss just gave me two tickets to see Tony Robbins and I wasn’t sure I would use them…”

“OOH, I would LOVE to see him, he is sooo inspirational. My friend R saw him last year and said it was very powerful!”, I interrupted her.

She is glad, and isn’t sure what his show would be about, but we decide to make a date of it and devise our plans for dinner and whatnot.

The evening arrives and we are running late. This is especially distressing for me as I am always (always) early or right on time and when I am late I usually feel like I am on the verge of tears trying to come to grips with the notion that when you’re late it shows that you don’t care. (Catholic guilt is deeply embedded, it is true) I also feel like a loser being late to a Tony Robbins event… pretty much goes against his whole philosophy, no?

We end up trashing our dinner plans, and scarf down pizza at a local joint, and race downtown to the venue. We cannot find any parking, and drive around for a few minutes looking for something. We finally park near the theater, in the underground lot and with about 5 minutes to spare we saunter up the the ticket both to get in.

We smile and my sister hands over our tickets and the ticket taker looks and says “Oh, you’re at the wrong theater… you need to go to the blahblahblah building.” it is a few blocks away. Having finally found parking in a pay-lot, we are now going to be pretty late. Running in heels, trying to figure out which theater she actually meant, traipsing around the theater district wondering why we are freaking out to see this show that we would never have paid to attend… and yet there is that feeling that were given these tickets, you must USE them. Off we run.

We find the building, and try the doors… locked. The next bay of doors are unlocked and we rush in. My sister hands over the tickets and the guy looks at them and says “Oh, these are the tickets for the after-party, that starts in 2 hours.” Shirley you jest.

We exhale, and try to leave the theater with our dignity and begin talking about our options, how cool the after party might be. My sister is reading the tickets, wondering why she never looked at them in detail. I ask her to hand over a ticket, so I might marvel at the blunder and I look and read: Tim Robbins…

Tim Robbins, TimTIM Robbins? Hmmmm. Not what I was hoping to see. We skipped the after party.

About the Author Corinne

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