I just worked eleven days in a row, mostly 11 hour per day. Because apparently it was someone's bright idea to build an entire show out of flimsy silken nothingness and no one planned on... you know... hiring people to put it together. My joints no longer function, but that's okay; my brain doesn't either.
An incredible amount of the past two weeks of my life is in this picture:
just click on the damn thing for the attribution, I have
no brain nor patience left for that shit
and even though I pretty much despise every single one of these dresses, now, at least it is over and done with and my life can spiral slowly back to normal. Which apparently means binge-watching the entire fifth season of Downton Abbey in two days, but whatever.
I took class last night. Apparently I have forgotten how my feet work.
I continually have nightmares about having to perform in a recital. I used to have nightmares about plays, because I was a drama nerd in high school and was in a lot of them. So, I would dream that here I was, 15 years later, and I had to perform one of those plays on the spur of the moment. That is pretty nerve wracking, right? Having to try desperately to dredge up old dialogue that you thought you would never have to say again? And then I have the nightmares about having to costume an entire production that opens in an hour, and that is totally a work thing. But these ballet recital dreams have been edging both of my old standards out on an increasingly frequent basis. They generally go something like this: it is the night of the recital and I haven't rehearsed in the last month. I try to stand behind the other girls and fake it as well as I can... until we get to my solo! And then I just have to make it up from scratch on the spot. I shall throw this leg in to front attitude and affect a haughty facial expression so that no one notices!
Sheesh.
For the past several weeks we've been doing this horrific dégagé combination at the barre. It involves counting and it's ridiculous and no one ever gets it right. Well, last night I freakin' NAILED that son of a bitch. That is right, STONE COLD NAILED IT. Well, on the first side, anyway. The left side will get there in it's own sweet time. Which isn't to say the rest of class went beautifully, but you have to seize your triumphs when they present themselves.
Last night I actually saw my teacher wearing pointe shoes! It was pretty astounding. Usually you won't catch ballet teachers within a mile of a pointe shoe, regardless of the class they are teaching. In fact, I could have sworn I once heard her say she wouldn't be caught dead in them (I believe the exact words were "wild horses could not drag me back in to pointe shoes") but there she was! Also: girlfriend straight up uses scotch tape on her toes. That ranks up there with folded up cheap paper towels, which I have also seen.
While she and the pointe students (I am the only person on flat in that class, now. Don't I just feel special) were all sitting on the lobby floor putting on their shoes I was standing alertly in the corner, absorbing their ribbon-tying instructions on the not-even-at-all sly. She looked at me and said "aw, RPrin. Do you feel left out?" and I was like "naw, naw. It's all good. I am learning from you guys" and she mentioned that she did not want to put me en pointe while I am still working at the theater (the season ends next month, and I go back to maybe-sorta earning a living from home for the next nine months) because it would be "a recipe for disaster". I wonder, do I really seem that harried and out of it right now? I mean, I AM harried and out of it, because I have to tube feed a cat at 6am and midnight every day. But STILL. I like to think I present an image of having my shit together.
It makes me think of one of my favorite songs (which, holy crap, we are staging at work this Summer. I am pretty excited.) I try to live the dream, man:
So I am taking this coming Monday off from ballet. It was a tough call, but Monday nights are dress rehearsals at the theater where I work, and while most of these are totally passable for me (Music Man? AGAIN?) this one is going to showcase costumes that have basically been my waking world for the past month+. It's going to be a really stupid show, honestly, but the costumes I have broken three nails on and acquired four fingertip calluses over are making it a must-see for me. Besides, there is a chance that someone might spontaneously combust, so I have to be there for that, right?
So, I am taking Monday night off. I took a make-up class tonight, just to try and even out the number of days between classes. It wasn't super awesome fun times after my physical therapy yesterday (and the lamentable ten minutes I spent on the couch last night attempting to "do the clam". My husband says if I injure myself doing this silly exercise he is just dropping me off at the emergency room and leaving me to explain to the nurses how I did myself bodily harm while "doing the clam". GOD, it can't just be me that thinks it sounds like a HORRIBLE euphemism!) but it was alright. We had a substitute teacher, though, while my regular instructor is on vacation (which she TOTALLY deserves after teaching 17 classes a week!). And after class, while we were all on the floor doing stretches with the pre-beginning class that meets after us, she made us do CRUNCHES! Oh GIRL! Argh! And then we flipped over and did some sort of backwards crunches! It was probably terribly good for me and I am sure that I need to be doing such things on my own time every day... but I am such a workout pussy. I did a pilates "crunch and burn" video a few weeks ago... I hurt for the next week!
Sigh...
At work we are staging a production that requires the leading lady to "fly" up off the stage and through the lighting array above. Which is all well and good in a show that doesn't involve actresses with copious swathes of floaty and highly flammable silk fabric draping artistically off their bodies. We are pretty much all cringing and whispering furtively amongst ourselves about flaming actresses and the much-less-than-impressed audience's reaction to same.
"What an amazing special effect! And the acting! The way she screams like that! So realistic! GIVE THAT WOMAN A TONY!"
Anyhow. I am certain that one way or another (vats of industrial strength flame retardant are being ordered) we will not end our sad theatrical careers with a horrible and dramatic tragedy. But, it's part of our consciousness, isn't it? Everyone you meet will know that people have died when their costumes caught the oil lamps used to light stages back in the day. It's mostly thanks to this ballerina:
Emma Livry who, in 1863, burst in to flames on stage and later died from her injuries. The most frustrating part of the whole ordeal is that she would have been fine if she'd stopped, dropped, and rolled like a good girl. But OH NO she had to be the drama queen and run flailing around the stage for several minutes. It must have been quite a show.
