Although Bob said he’d like to see Blue Man Group in Boston, he was sure I wouldn’t. Maybe you’ve seen their ad where they play with TV sets on strings. They’re outrageous. They bulldoze past the sanity line in a joyride on stage. In other words, this is no Prairie Home Companion. So Bob was surprised to find tickets tied in ribbons on the night table.

I had told the ticket seller I’m claustrophobic and asked for an aisle seat. This was good because the Charles Playhouse is the size of a macaroon. It’s tight.  It’s hot. We were led to the fourth row, where there was a plastic rain coat on every chair. This did not bode well.

Bob looked at me protectively. “Are you ok?” he asked.

I squeezed into the cramped aisle seat, saw paint splattered everywhere, put on the raincoat, began sweating and chanting my relaxation mantra, “marshmallow spread on peanut buttered bread” and said, “Hey, I’m fine. It’s not like an airplane, right? I can always leave.” That escape clause soon lost its comfort, when someone got up during the act and was instantly highlighted by the spot light.

I was seriously not having fun.

Now, I know you’re double checking my byline at the end of this column and saying, “How could she be this way?” My answer?

“Beats me.”

So three men with blue faces performed mime skits and paint-splashing drum concerts with incredible talent. But that wasn’t all. One of these men, while standing on my toe, leaned over the guy sitting in front of me and stuck a tiny camera in his mouth so that his tonsils could be seen on a giant screen. A la Dave Barry, I am not making this up. I was too scared to move my throbbing toe because I was afraid he’d grab my arm and decide it was time for my stage debut. 

And then, the grand finale. From the rafters came reams and reams of crepe paper, covering the audience like a hot, thick blanket. Sadistic theater people swooped down the aisles, making sure any missed heads were covered. Since I didn’t see anybody offering masks spewing out general anesthesia, I called upon my expertise in anxiety reduction training.

I imagined myself at Sandy Neck. (Never mind I paid $90 for this and I’m trying to picture myself anywhere else.) I see the eiders. . . drifting. I hear the wind come rushing down the plain. I see hawks making lazy circles in the sky . . . Gordon McRae with a little red scarf around his neck.  

Now, Bob is frantically pulling the crepe paper off my head, while some artsy person is throwing it back on. But I don’t care. Because I’ve got my eyes closed and my hands over my ears, and I’m singing, “O-O-O-OK-LA-HO-MA . . . !”

“That was a selfless gift,” Bob later said, as we held hands walking through the great theater district.

The truth is, had I known it would be like that, I’d never have done it. Then I recalled once telling Bob about the Maryland steamed crabs of my youth. And the day my first column was published, he had a dozen FedEx’ed to our door.

I looked in his eyes and thought of this gift. He doesn’t even like crab. And then, I said to him laughingly and lovingly, “It was worth every penny.”

And believe it or not . . . it was.