Razzle and Dazzle 'Em

The last vestiges of glue have peeled off my eyelashes, the last sticky remains of mic tape have rubbed off my neck, the calluses on my toes are healing--I think I've finally accepted that Chicago has closed. 

I’ve been reminiscing about the whole process (as one does in post-show depression), and remembered the funny conversation that lead me to that audition in the first place: 

In class, one of my students floated the idea that you should never turn down the opportunity to audition because you learn something every time. I said, "Absolutely! Always take that chance! If nothing else, it helps to show your nerves that come during an audition, so you know how to better deal with them for the next one." (Or some inspiring crap like that) 

The following dialogue was like out of a Disney movie with a snarky kid who makes the grown-up reevaluate their life:

"So when's the last time you auditioned for something, Mrs. Corkin?"

"Well, I, um.."

"Or better yet, when's your next audition?"

"I don't really..."

"I'm going to audition for Chicago next week--You should too!"

"What?"

"Didn't you just say you should take every chance to audition you can get?"

"Well..."

"Great! I'll see you there!"

Then, of course, the night of the auditions, I decided she was right. I was constantly asking my students to be vulnerable, to put themselves out there, and to learn from their experiences. What a hypocrite I'd be if I didn't take the chance to learn something? 

If nothing else, to be able to better empathize with their little nerves (because it had been a while). 

I was somehow late, and so unprepared: no dance shoes (just socks), no headshot, no resume, no monologue even. I knew a song from the show (because who doesn't know a song from Chicago?), but I had to look up the words to make sure I had the right order. 

I forgot what it was like to be nervous for something, to put yourself out there, to be vulnerable.

And of course, the happy surprise ending that I got cast. Well, now what?  Then came the inner debates I had for weeks--can I even DO this show??--1st year, full-time teaching (I'm already overwhelmed), music-directing the musical (I'll be on my feet for 15 hours straight for most of two months...) On the other hand, what a fun role! And I don't have any friends in this new city, I'd like to have friends! I miss friends! Heck, I miss theater! So with my boss's blessing, I committed. 

Look at that GIANT on the right--you see my concern!

Playing this role forced me to address some vulnerabilities I haven't felt in a long time (too tall, too clunky, too squishy, too fat, not trained, not enough ______, yada yada, blah blah blah) All those pesky things we're forced to examine when putting ourselves on display on a stage.

My role was double cast--with a gorgeous, petite dancer (who was also our phenomenal choreographer). So the temptation was strong to compare my giant, ogre-like, towering frame to her lithe, flexible princess-ness. 

Icky, un-pointed toes. You get the picture. 

 Next to my cute, little Velma, I looked like a ginormesaur.  Oy vey! 

But I kept thinking, what would I tell my students? Would I ever let their insecurities about how capable they are as a dancer keep them from dancing? Never. 

Would I ever look at another tall woman and say she shouldn't be dancing? Never. Why can't we grant ourselves the same grace we grant others? 

And whether or not my cast even knew about them, those insecurities of mine were met with support, love, laughter, and friendship. And no comparison--simply the chance to learn from one another. 

To say I gained friends is an understatement. It was an honor to be a part of this crew: chock-full of the most generous, kind-spirited, talented performers and crew-members. Builders, every one of them. It was all hands on deck, and no hands complaining. I learned so much. And (once I got over myself a little bit) had so. much. fun.

What a crew, huh?? Gorgeous. Every one of 'em!

The takeaway: Be vulnerable. Be generous, don't compare, be willing to learn. Always audition. 

So the grey, sticky remnants of mic tape gone, the bruises finally healed, my eyelashes growing back: no physical proof stuck on my body, the only thing left to keep is the memories, and the songs forever stuck in my head, and all that jazz. 

Just a few memories for honorable mention:

• Trying not to blush when we first blocked the racier scenes, barely knowing each other. I tried desperately to be mature but definitely giggled at all the sex jokes along the way.
• Scrambling to find places to rehearse when we inevitably got kicked out of the big rooms. 
• That moment we realized our director, Josh was serious about throwing baby dolls across the stage.
• Colliding baby dolls across the stage. 
• Stretching/warming up in slightly inappropriate places.
• Costume malfunctions, pinning and pressing, and snapping things into place, in hopes they'll stay.
• The awkwardness of trying to get in and out of the lira (except for Ashlie. who looked incredible doing so).
• Pure bliss waltzing with a strong partner like Andy when trying to be a lifeless puppet. Waltzing with Andy under any circumstances is bliss.
• Not being able to squeal with pure JOY in seeing Tony finally make it across the stage on a unicycle because my mic was on. 
• The various swear words accidentally muttered through the speakers because mics were on :)
• Learning New swear words from Barb every night.
• Crissakes! (noun, kri(s)/säk/ē(s), clever expletive.)
• The comfort levels of walking around in underwear backstage growing: again, we started out tentatively modest, then didn't have time to care. As one cast member said closing night, "I guess it's no longer acceptable for us to be in our underwear around each other..."
• Fire-alarms leading to us all to stand outside in the cold, in our classy 1920's lingerie. Twice.
• Taping a garbage bag to the door frame so that the smoke machine didn't cause the fire alarm to put us out in the cold in classy 1920's lingerie again. 
• The sweet relief of taking off the wig each show.
• The excitement of opening night, of sharing our fun version of this story; and the swell in our hearts on closing.

  

  a happier version of me does not exist than
  the moment the wig came off every night