It's really happening now. Because I'm obsessive-compulsive, I haven't really believed it was happening until I knew we could get a mid-week babysitter. But now it's really immanent: my wife and I are going to Wicked at the Orpheum.
As it happens, I'm currently reading Gregory Maguire's third Wicked book, A Lion Among Men (well, as currently as my freshman composition papers allow). I was disappointed in Son of a Witch and wasn't terribly interested in the Cowardly Lion's life, but the book jacket description made it seem interesting enough. Yackle and all.
One reason I read is to enter a world that is not my own. I don't consider this escapism for yet another reason I read is for a deeper confrontation with myself, and that confrontation often comes at the level of imagination.