The Hat

            I set out to write something philosophical and serious, but philosophy bores me just now and the world is far too serious.

So here’s a sweet little moment, a happy time set at one of the most fun places on Earth: Cirque du Soleil.

But first a quick word about the “big” vs. “little” thing we do, implying that something big is more important. Is it really? Many important things start small. Take seeds. Throw out a handful of seeds you can barely see, and you could get a meadow or a forest. Is a seed less important than a tree?

So let’s not call this small.

Jon and I have driven through rain and snow and ice and dark of night to get to the soaring white tents. We’re in the lobby checking out the merchandise, which is frivolous and fun, and I expect it to be insanely expensive. It’s actually not too bad. I buy a nicely made pouch for $15 because I need one and I need Cirque du Soleil energy in my life. We look at masks with butterflies lodged in plumes of shiny black feathers, flowered crowns that light up with bulbs, and something called a sun spinner. We don’t know what that is.

Then we see a flat black disc, mysterious at first, ‘til it pops out into a hat. A top hat, all velvety and shiny, with feathers in the band. The friendly guy behind the counter tells us it’s adjustable, fits all sizes.

“Try it on,” I say playfully, and Jon puts it on his head.

This makes me unreasonably happy. I believe fun is an essential nutrient, and sometimes I think of Jon as practical and frugal—never mind that he’s the one who bought our tickets and he’s the one who thought of this. I too often cling to my dumb fixed ideas.  I don’t expect him to try it on, but he does. He does, and his smile when he looks in the mirror melts my heart.

It’s only $25. I thought it would be twice that, or more. Still, he says, What would I do with it? and puts it back.

As we walk away we talk about the Mardi Gras dance we could have gone to, and I say, Maybe next year. If I had something great to wear, I’d go.

We head in to find our seats, carrying the $13 popcorn I bought. Not my wisest purchase, but oh, well. The show is wonderful beyond words. Literally, I won’t try to describe the lighting, the music, the rhythm of acts, and the things some humans can do with their bodies. The grace, the strength. I am carried away, almost overwhelmed, then someone in a dog suit escapes and runs wild through the audience with clowns chasing him. Somehow a conga line of audience members forms, they shoot confetti at us with cannons, and at last a robot pops out of a manhole with a sign that says, Intermission.

An idea has been taking root in my mind, growing like one of those things you buy in a little capsule, that expand into an undersea jungle when you drop them in water. The seed turns into a plan, and lucky for me, Jon has to go to the bathroom.

I go straight to the hat rack, and yes, there are some left! I don’t care if it’s not practical, if he rarely has chances to wear it, I’m thinking of the look on his face when he put it on. That’s worth many times the cost of the hat.

I’m wearing a big bulky coat—the hat tucks under my arm with barely a bulge. He comes back and we return to our seats, and he hasn’t noticed a thing. Through the rest of the show and all the way home I keep caressing it, making sure it’s still there. I hold my arm firmly down as we walk in the house. When he goes to brush his teeth I take it upstairs and sneak it into the closet.  We go to sleep, and I think I’ll save it for his birthday in August, because it’s so hard to find good presents for him.

That would be the practical, sensible thing to do.

But the next morning we’re lying in bed talking about which acts we liked best and well, I can’t help myself.

Stay right there, I say, as if he were about to do something else.

I pull the lovely velvety black disc from the closet and pop it open. Jon laughs, the playful little boy laugh I was hoping for.

Where did you hide it? he says.

He doesn’t say, What am I going to do with this?

We go downstairs and make breakfast, and he wears it as he chops the veggies for our omelet, a stylish pairing with the plaid bathrobe. I shoot a picture. We chuckle at moments through the morning, looking at the hat.

It’s a needed seed of silliness and joy.