I arrived at the theater five minutes before the curtain went up and was asked to put on my mask. I didn’t have one. I threw my masks away the minute the New York City mandates were lifted, but the helpful door attendant was happy to hand me one.

I shouldn’t have, but I took it. I thought about handing it back and turning on my heel, but I didn’t. I put it on and rushed in to meet my friends. Arriving at my row, I loudly objected to the absurdity of continuing a policy already proven to be ineffective. My friends agreed, as did two strangers seated to their left who said they were relieved to hear others thought this was madness too. I told myself making a public fuss was a substitute for acting on what I believed. I should have left.

Instead, I sat down. I seethed at the mask monitors in the front of the room who scanned the audience for masks that dipped below noses. They seemed to love their jobs. I could have stood up, apologized to my friends and said what I truly felt—that abiding by this policy was feeding the monster, and that I would not participate. No play was worth my dignity. I could have walked out.