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It was supposed to be a great adventure. It was supposed to be great fun. And it was all to begin with me heading off to my beloved New York City for a once-in-a-lifetime, forever dreamed of special invitation to a theater workshop featuring a host of Broadway luminaries.

My story began with concealment, which, in my eyes, is just a blink short of a lie. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming to town. The trip was on the proverbial “down low.” Never had I snuck home to NYC, where I have family and friends I love to see. But this trip was tricky to schedule, sandwiched — matzo-ed? — between multiple Passover seders. It had to be a quickie. So stealth seemed the efficient and only way to go. Shame on me!

The invitation came from Berkeley Repertory Theatre, where I once served on the board of trustees and now act as a sustaining adviser. As such, I, along with several others, scored this glorious invitation to attend a workshop where a new musical production was being pitched to financial backers. The details of the show are not mine to share, but it’s exciting. It has, as they say in the biz — or at least I think they say — great legs.

The lead actor is a multi-award winner (and handsome). The director is likewise multi-award winning, and the entire list of “creatives” is likewise stellar.

It’s long been on my bucket list to attend one of these pitching workshops, where I imagine the energy in the room is just out of this world. I mean these people are truly singing for their supper/show!

Also, let’s face it, I’m a Broadway groupie. The opportunity to mingle with a roomful of artistic greats just brings out the giggling, agog fangirl in me!

By dessert, he would propose taking me away from my hum-drum housewife-y existence and insist on installing me in a lux brownstone on the Upper East Side.

And so, with barely a shrug to responsibilities — holiday meal planning needs, writing deadlines and the need to curtail spending before an already scheduled budget-busting Broadway eight-show trip — I RSVP-ed. Yes. Yes. A thousand times YES!!!

My frenzied preparations included styling and shopping: I got a chic new haircut and my nails colored appropriately with OPI’s Big Apple Red. In addition, I — who never worries about clothes — spent days agonizing over my wardrobe. East Coast sophisticated subdued navy suit vs. West Coast “trendy” wide-leg gray jeans with a colorful chunky sweater and funky jewelry?

And I fantasized:

Clearly, whatever outfit I chose, one of those Big-League Big Apple show backers was going to be smitten with middle-aged me!

Clearly, he would insist on wining and dining me at some oh-so posh eatery post-workshop.

And just as clearly, by dessert (preferably chocolate eclairs) he would propose taking me away from my hum-drum housewife-y existence and insist on installing me in a lux brownstone on the Upper East Side (preferably near the Metropolitan Museum of Art).

That was the plan/fantasy.

Instead?

Instead, the day before leaving I woke up to gripping, ripping stomach pains.

The rest was decidedly not Show Biz history.

I spent three days in bed, lovingly tended to by my sweet Handsome Hubby. And when I felt better, there was a surprise. The doorbell rang. A package had arrived from NYC’s famed appetizer shop, Russ & Daughters. It was filled with brunch delights — lox, bagels, cream cheese and chocolate babka. I hadn’t made it to the Big Apple, but my ever-thoughtful husband had brought a taste of my hometown to me.

This story isn’t musical. It isn’t Broadway-bound. It won’t win a Tony Award, but after all these years, I’ve still got stars in my eyes for my husband, one prize of a guy.