
Kathy Westbrook, lower right corner, gazes adoringly at the first man of her dreams. Photo was taken by the second man of her dreams. (Steve Westbrook|Courtesy photo)
If you’ve read any of my previous columns, you know that earlier this year, Steve and I took a cross-country train trip that lasted almost the entire month of February. Midway through the trip, on Feb. 14 — known to most of you as Valentine’s Day, although to me, it’s Birthday Eve — we found ourselves in Las Vegas.
We were staying at Harrah’s and sleeping in an actual bed, which felt a lot like heaven after the fitful nights we’d tried to sleep in our seats on the train. I was feeling better than I’d felt in days, having finally gotten over the worst of Covid. Notice I said that I was feeling better, not that I was feeling good. Despite Covid being mostly in my rearview mirror, I was still feeling the after-effects, with fatigue weighing me down.
So when Steve suggested that we head down to the casino, I was mentally up for it, but wasn’t sure I could summon the energy necessary to leave our room. I listlessly rummaged through my backpack and pulled out a wrinkled shirt. I knew the casino would probably be chilly, so I hid the shirt beneath a coat I’d been wearing (and using as an extra blanket on the train) the entire trip. Make-up? Forget it. Styling my hair? Heck, I don’t even do that when I’m feeling good. Almost every woman I know has, at some point in her life, headed out the door for a quick run to the grocery store, looking less than great, uttering the words, “I hope I don’t see anyone I know.” Well, I knew I was looking way less than great — in fact, I was barely hitting the “acceptable” mark. But, hey, I was in Vegas. No one knew me. It was cool.
Once we made it down to the casino, Steve started acting a little crazy. Crazier than usual. Instead of us going our separate ways, as we’re wont to do in a casino, he took me by the hand and led me to…well, I wasn’t sure where he was leading me. We ended up crisscrossing the casino, back and forth, back and forth, and the longer we walked, the more his pace quickened, and the more tired I became. He seemed to be lost. He seemed to be looking for something. But, he just kept walking, pulling me along. Because I’m used to his craziness, I put up with this for quite a while, but finally, utterly exhausted and exasperated, I asked, “What are you doing?”
He hesitated a few seconds before answering, “I thought we’d see if there are any tickets available for Donny’s show tonight.” Donny, I knew, was Donny Osmond. As a tween in the early ‘70s, I’d swooned over Donny as he sang “Puppy Love,” “The Twelfth of Never,” and “Go Away Little Girl.” I’d been certain I would one day be Mrs. Donny Osmond. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
As it happened, Donny was performing a residency show right there in Harrah’s, but I’d never even entertained the thought that Steve and I might go. For one thing, our stay at Harrah’s was to be pretty short, so I assumed we wouldn’t have time. Secondly, I knew the show tended to sell out, so the chances of getting last-minute tickets wasn’t good. And, finally, since my husband was never a tween girl, he wasn’t a Donny fan. Yet here he was dragging me around a casino, trying to score last-minute tickets — or so I thought.
As it turned out, he’d secretly gone online late the night before and purchased tickets, and at this point all he was trying to do was find the venue. When he eventually admitted as much to me, we found someone who directed us to the showroom, and we actually arrived a few minutes before the start of the show. Since Steve had gotten the tickets fairly last-minute, he’d snapped up the one and only front-row seat available for me, and had snagged a ticket for himself sitting directly behind me. This may not sound like the ideal situation, but it worked out great, as he sat through the show taking pictures of me taking pictures of Donny.
Now, here’s the thing about the show: It was spectacular. Spec. Tac. U. Lar. And here’s the best part: Donny and I — well, we had a moment. I can’t even tell you what song he was singing at the time, so overwhelmed was I by the fact that our eyes locked. And in that moment, I thought: Oh, my gosh! It’s Donny Osmond! Donny Osmond is looking at me!
And in that moment, I imagine that Donny must have been thinking something along these lines: Why in the world would that woman come to my show looking like that? Would it have killed her to put on a little make-up? Does she not even own a hairbrush? And what’s up with that coat? It looks like she’s been sleeping in it. But you know what? Even with all those thoughts of me swimming around in his head, Donny kept right on smiling and singing and dancing. Because he’s a pro. Because he’s not gonna let one disheveled fan throw him off his game. Because he’s Donny!
As much as I enjoyed the show — words like amazing, fantastic and wonderful come to mind — one small thing nagged at me throughout. I dreaded the moment when the show would end and I would have to hear Steve’s less-than-stellar review. He’d gotten us tickets because he knew how much it would mean to me, but it wasn’t a show he’d have ever chosen to see on his own, and I just knew he was spending the evening barely bearing it.
But the moment the show was over and I turned to face him, his first words were: “That was a great show!” And the thing was, I could tell he meant it. He wasn’t just saying it; he really and truly enjoyed the show as much as I did. OK, probably not as much as I did, but a lot. As much as he enjoyed the performance, though, he said that what he enjoyed even more was watching me enjoy the performance.
Now, one piece of advice, if I may, for all the ladies out there: no matter how poorly you’re feeling on your Birthday Eve, you might want to go ahead and put on a little make-up, run a brush through your hair, and put on a non-wrinkled shirt — ‘cause you never know who’s gonna show up to serenade you.
Next week: I graduated from Campbell, but I went to Harvard.