Time is a curious beast. Before you know it, there you are looking at yourself in the mirror, and five, ten, fifteen years have passed. Subtle. Surprising. Sad. And also wonderful, as with it comes age, wisdom and a deepened sense of self.

These are odd things to think about, I’m assuming, when watching Noël Coward’s Private Lives at the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (which I’m reviewing for EDGE). But Gary Griffin’s in-the-round staging caught me off guard last night, in a way that reminded me how easy it is to let time march right on by, unnoticed.

You see, the stage is round (hence in-the-round…), and about 20 minutes in, I realized, “Hey! Those chairs are now facing me when they were pointed the opposite direction at the top of the show! In fact — the entire set has flipped!”

Did I zone out and miss a major set change?

And then I noticed: the stage was spinning just over so slowly — no faster than a minute hand on a giant clock would move. Barely noticeable. Yet there it was — the stage turning, changing, and I didn’t even realize it until the damn thing had almost made a 180-degree rotation.

I’ve always prided myself on my keen observation skills. I guess I was just too engrossed in the action at hand to notice things were gradually transitioning. Not unlike real life, I suppose.

I’ve never seen a show staged in such a way, but it’s rather brilliant. It gives you perspective of the whole stage, without being obtrusive. And I’m sure it colors the themes of the play in some way, but it’s far too early in the morning to articulate all that right now.

Another reminder of time’s impact on my life: I reconnected with an old friend, whom I hadn’t seen in several years, last night. I asked her to be my “plus one” for the show, and she accepted. As we drank wine at the opening night after-party and chatted about the horrors of plastic surgery, old movie stars (she still hates Ann Miller, yet loves Fred Astaire) and tragic towing incidents, it was like no time had passed.

So, yeah. Time.

The show is wonderful. A virtually flawless production full of charm and wit. More to come on that…

When Sandy Duncan was doing Peter Pan, a college classmate of mine and I cut classes and went to see a matinée. It was a fantastic production.

Afterwards, we waited by the stage door to get our Playbills autographed. Sandy came out in costume and was very gracious.

When she got to me, I asked her if Tinkerbell (who was a laser light) was coming out. She said, “No, she’s a lazy bitch.”

It’s a story that I will treasure forever.

(I think that girl at 1:07 in this video might be me? She sure shares my enthusiasm!)

The loss of a relative is always sad, and this was no exception. However, the memorial service was the most unlike-a-funeral I’ve been to. This was pretty much a testament to my cousin’s effort in keeping the event a remembrance of her spirit and personality – which were amazingly singular and spectacular.

Aunt Janet was unlike anyone in my family. I would define her as a free spirit: the details of life didn’t really burden her. A beautiful woman, she had a brave sense of fashion and loved to wear amazingly ornate hats. Outside her front door rested a mat that stated, “Dull women keep immaculate homes.” Her knack for training dogs and love of animals, particularly her basset hound, Daphnie, was unparalleled. At Christmas, she was infamous for choosing the most remarkable gifts one could imagine. By my cousin’s account, she was a good, loving mother — albeit unconventional. She loved to travel, and when she wasn’t traveling, she was planning her next trip. She had many close friends who she remained in constant contact with via long, handwritten letters, of which she would often compose second and third drafts prior to mailing. Sadly, in her final years, she battled depression, which was hard on many people, but hardest on her.

However, these traits caused her some grief in the family – particularly with her mother. Grandma B, a teacher for most of her life, was detail-oriented to a fault, and a constant worrier. Their distinctly different, yet equally determined, personalities did not blend well. At the memorial, there were only two pictures of Aunt Janet and Grandma B together – the only photos my cousin could find.

On the other hand, she was extremely close with her father. They shared a love of nature, trees and acerbic wit. Grandpa Bob looked past the “eccentricities” and loved her for her. This was quite apparent from the photos and stories in abundance at the memorial. When he died, four years prior to my grandmother, Aunt Janet seemed lost.

Saturday, before the memorial service, we went to the tree farm in Mason, MI that my grandfather started over 50 years ago, and spread Aunt Janet’s ashes. This was the same spot Grandpa Bob’s ashes were spread 11 years earlier. It was a simple, quiet ceremony. I’m sure she would have approved. However, I wish I had worn a fancy hat.

I may have mentioned it here before, but my family often jokingly accuses me of inheriting the “Janet gene.” In my family, this means that I’m known for forgetting things – like leaving half-finished pop cans lying around the house after opening new ones, possessing a very poor sense of direction, and overall, just a touch of “airheadedness.” For years I thought this was highly insensitive and disrespectful of my family – both to me and Aunt Janet. However, I now wear this badge with honor. I think she was a great, flawed woman. As we all are. (Well – not the woman part, because some of us are dudes, but you know what I mean…)

I will miss you, Aunt Janet.