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It was a Thursday night, a fact I remember simply because it was one week and one day before our wedding. I may not recall when I got my roots touched up—was it last Tuesday or last October?—but I can say with all certainty that our (un)forgettable night at the opera was March 6, 1986.

I have the ticket stubs in our wedding album to prove it.

This was to be a gala occasion, a prematrimonial night on the town with Ms. Liz wearing the only long gown I owned that was not a former bridesmaid dress, and Mr. Bill sporting his one dark suit—black—which we pretended was a tux.

All Bill knew was that we were going somewhere spiffy. I kept the details to myself, eager to see the look on his face when we strolled through the doors of the theatre and found Mozart waiting for us.

True confession: I adore opera. I'm a nut for Rossini, Puccini, Donizetti, Spaghetti, and the rest. Not that I actually understand Italian, but who needs to know what the words mean when they're sung so beautifully by people with more notes in their range than I have crumbs in my oven?

Since my Bill—now husband, then fiancÉ—often played classical music on his car stereo, I was sure he'd be thrilled to pieces with our "surprise" date. I made him park two blocks away from the theatre, just to keep him in suspense, and turned to watch his face when the marquee came into view.

"Opera?" he croaked, his eyes widening—no doubt with utter astonishment and delight. "We're going to the … opera?"

"Isn't it wonderful?" I sighed.

"Wonderful," he sighed back. Okay, it may have been closer to a groan, but starry-eyed romantic that I was, I sallied forth toward the box office, too eager for the show to begin to pay attention to Bill's dragging feet.

The evening's production was indeed Mozart—good news there—but I must admit, the title made me nervous: The Abduction from the Seraglio. The libretto notes offered little comfort: "Constanze and her maid, Blonde, are captured by pirates and sold into slavery in a Turkish harem." Oh, dear. Would my seminary-trained sweetie faint dead away at the storyline?

I kept reading. It got worse.

"Belmonte and his servant, Pedrillo, ply Osmin the harem-keeper with wine, until he falls asleep in a drunken stupor … "

No, no, no! This would not do at all.

I glanced over at Bill as he studied the program, wondering if I might distract him until the lights went out. As long as he never figured out the particulars, he could enjoy the show blissfully ignorant—sÍ?

Right on cue, the house lights dimmed and the opening notes floated up from the orchestra pit, mere feet in front of us. Sitting this close to the action, Bill couldn't possibly miss a thing. Ah, good! He'd put away his program. Mozart's quasi-sordid harem tale would float over Bill's head, right along with the soprano's high Cs.

I shivered with anticipation as Belmonte sauntered onto the stage for Act I. Caught up in the high drama unfolding before me, I barely noticed Bill starting to slide down in his padded theatre seat.

At a critical moment, when Belmonte found Pedrillo, my elbow found Bill's rib. Actually, it was his shoulder, but I didn't know that … yet. "Well, what do you know?" I whispered. "Pedrillo is the Pasha's gardener."

No answer.

"Bill," I hissed two minutes later, keeping my voice low in the darkened theatre. "There she is! Constanze lives at the palace."

Maybe so, but where Bill was sitting, it was strictly a case of "nobody home."

When I finally turned in his direction, I discovered the terrible truth: The man was asleep … asleep! Not just a little power nap, mind you—eyes closed but body alert, a prompt snap-to mere seconds away. We're talking deep, REM-filled sleep.

His mouth was hanging open, slack-jawed. His chin drooped down on his chest, head flung sideways, tongue hanging loosely out of the corner of his mouth like a drowsy Saint Bernard's. To add insult to injury, Bill was slumped so far down in his seat, it would take Pedrillo's garden shovel to dig him out.

The inevitable followed two measures later: snoring.

Loud, snorty snoring. The kind that sounds as though a bassoon was being dragged through an artillery factory in slow motion—rat-a-tat-a-rat-a-tat-raaaaah—with an abrupt spray of buckshot at the end.

Heads started swiveling in our direction. Faint whispers floated down the aisle. My only recourse was to slide down in the seat until my shoulder touched Bill's. Oh sure, the audience could still see me, but thank goodness I would no longer see them shaking their heads, rolling their eyes, and pursing their lips in obvious disgust.

And the snore played on.

Not certain if praying for Act I to end soon was spiritually correct, I did it anyway, begging God for a tiny modicum of mercy. My biggest concern was that Bill would wake up with a start and let loose a big, growly harrumph at a pianissimo part of the program. Please, Lord, let it happen on a cymbal crash!

It was not meant to be. Bill crashed the tenor's dramatic aria instead, in a different key entirely. Nor was it in Italian, Turkish, Spanish, or any other recognizable language.

Even the soloists noticed, their eyebrows soaring with their notes. In the box seats house left, a woman was staring at us through her opera glasses as though we were bugs under a microscope. Well, I was squirming.

Meanwhile, the conductor shot us a dark glance over his shoulder and kept waving his baton while poor, bleary-eyed Bill gazed at his surroundings and blinked, trying to figure out where he was and how he got there.

One look at my stormy expression must have summed things up for him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, straightening in his seat. I shimmied into place as well and mashed my lips together to keep from saying something I might regret later—you know, something such as "How could you make such a fool of me in my own town, you nincompoop?!" The kind of statement a bride-to-be doesn't even think, let alone say, to her beloved betrothed.

The first act ended blessedly soon thereafter, and we made a beeline for the sidewalk. "Fresh air," Bill muttered. I was all for it. Anything that would put some distance between us and the scene of the crime.

Inhaling the brisk March wind, Bill perked up considerably. "I'm ready," he said at last, chin firmly jutted out like a man being sent into the ring for a second round.

As we headed for our seats, ignoring the smirking usher, I patted Bill's arm affectionately. "You hate this, don't you?"

"No, no! Not at all. Just a bit tired from the drive." His yawn that turned into a smile warmed my heart. Could I love a man who didn't love the opera? I most certainly could. Besides, Act II would surely be a vast improvement.

"Do you have any idea what's happened in the story so far?" I asked innocently as we eased back into our seats.

"Oh, yeah." He nodded emphatically, "Great stuff. Very moving. The setting is a monastery, right?"

The man didn't have a clue.

Thank you, Lord.

Act II was filled with wooing and cooing, more high notes from the soprano, and more low notes from snoring Bill. He faded even faster this time. Must have been the fresh air. One benefit, though: He missed the whole scene with Osmin, the drunken harem-keeper.

You can handle this, Liz, I told myself, looking down at my dearly departed, headed off to dreamland. After all, I'd been a single opera-goer for years. This was exactly like that, only warmer, since Bill had snuggled onto my shoulder and was snoring into my armpit.

when the lights came on at the end of Act II, I knew the next "abduction" in the plot would involve me spiriting Bill out the door.

"Pssst! Honey!" I nudged his floppy head with my shoulder, hoping I might wake him gently and not scare the poor tenor again. Even if the man was backstage, Bill's two octave snore was definitely up to the task.

My intended opened one sleepy eye and smiled. "Is it over?"

"You could say that," I assured him, casually helping him to his feet and taking his arm as we made our way toward operatic freedom.

He yawned expansively. "But what happens in Act III?"

I shrugged, steering him toward the car. "Not much. Constanze and Blonde escape. Pasha lets them go. A very happy ending." Just like ours will be.

Bill reached for his car keys. "So, is that it?"

"Well, there's something you can relate to that happens before the curtain falls." I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "Osmin the harem-keeper finally wakes up!"

Liz Curtis Higgs, a TCW columnist and author of 15 books, including Really Bad Girls of the Bible (WaterBrook Press), lives with her wide-awake husband and two children in Kentucky.

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