Sleepy Hollow Cinderella Story

I feel a little bit like a certain Disney princess these days.

Let me tell you a little bit about this Cinderella Story of mine:


When I saw my name on the cast list for Sleepy Hollow, I was in denial.  Shock and awe. Literally had NO expectation AT ALL that I would make the company. But by some divine intervention: I did!

We had a pre-show production meeting. We have a production TEAM. YES> A whole team of people working to make this touring company a successful venture.

We have a hair and make-up design team, a costume design team, and a tour coordinator. Not to mention the stage managers and technical crew for the run at BYU.

In the spring, I went to the basement of the arts building to get my costume, but I walked into the wrong room. You see, I've done student shows before, and I've been costumed, but turns out there is a GINORMOUS costume shop for main-stage productions

it was like stepping into NARNIA!

My costume!

The measured every inch they could possibly find on my body. I said, "You can't possibly use all of these measurements" (like, for example, the circumference of my forearm?). The cute girl with the measuring tape said, "You'd be surprised. When we make skin-tight spandex suits, we need every measurement we can get"

I didn't ask what they were making skin tight spandex suits for.


This is the custom designed, hand-made, specially tailored costume---->
Isn't it darling?!


 I am seriously the luckiest person in the world.


We are the BYU Young Company.

the cast with our incredible director

We travel to elementary (and middle) schools around Utah every Tuesday and Thursday. We do our funny, charming, imaginative, INTERACTIVE show, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." The show is brilliantly adapted from Washington Irving's classic short story by our Phenomenal Director into a fast-paced, multiple-charactered, two-person show. (well, 4. depending)

Black Eyes Part II.

I went on another date with this boy. Member THIS ONE, where I had mascara all over my face when I came home?

Well, I asked him casually (super smoothly) if he had happened to read my blog after our date.


"Ya, I did"
"YOU DID?! Did you notice??"
"uh. ya. I did"
"ok. why didn't you say anything?!"
"I didn't know what it was."

comforting.


so that's the closure for those of you following this story. I hope you found as much peace as I did.

two black eyes

As my date dropped me off at my doorstep, I opened the door to find my roommate sitting at the kitchen table. So I stood in the open doorway and faced my date to bid him goodnight.  He said, "This feels rather...formal"

"Why yes. it does." I replied in my most formal, cordial British accent, "Well, sir, I hope you enjoy a lovely rest of the evening"

"I hope you do as well, madam. And I dare say I hope to see you again"

"I shall wait with bated breath"

"Well, Goodnight!"

"Bye (insert date's name)! See 'ya later!"

I shut the door behind him and giggled at our cleverness. 

Abby said, "how was the date?"

I gushed in detail about the date:

How much fun I had just sitting and talking for much longer than expected. I relayed how impressed I was with his knowledge of American politics (because of his exotic Canadian upbringing). I told her that we met a waiter who knew a friend of ours. I expressed that I said the phrase, "the moral of the story" at least eight times. As I was starting into the tale of our giant chocolate truffle cake, I happened to catch a glance of myself in a small mirror, and to my horror, saw this:

I appeared to have had two black eyes. Rebellious eyeliner had plagued the top of my cheekbones with dark smudges. I looked like the end of a teary-break up, smeared with makeup. Or like I'd gotten caught in a coal mining accident. Or like a bad halloween costume of an over-worked witch. 

"Dear goodness!" I exclaimed to Abby.

"What?"

"How long do you think I looked like this?!"

"oh man..."

"How long has it been like that?! All night probably! Oh gosh! Why didn't he say anything?! maybe he didn't notice?"

Abby crinkled her nose, "Um... maybe..."

"Oh my gosh. He MUST have noticed. how could he NOT?"

Trying to console me, she optimistically pointed out that it was a lot less noticeable when I smiled, as the creases in the bags under my eyes were filled in, and only accented when I dropped the grin. "So you must have been smiling a lot...?" 

Note to self: 

If you buy new eyeliner before a first date, check the bags under your eyes in the mirror at least half way through. As to avoid him remembering you as the girl who's football game war-paint had gone terribly wrong. 

I know that I know you...?

I know this man. I've seen his face.
In the few moments I have before he sees me/recognizes me I have the opportunity to sort this out in my head:

OK.
 are you an old acquaintance ? from my home state? friend of a friend from church in colorado?
Did you once work tech on a show I was in? GAH! Were you IN a show that I was in...?

No. I hope that I would definitely remember his name if it were any of these... but alas I don't.

so I continue listing the options:

• did I once flirt with him in the library? or waiting in line to get food somewhere? 
• (not that this happens often, but it's a possibility)
• we were in a class together maybe?
• summer camp? summer program? EFY? Freshman year?
• did we once go on a date?
• were we once supposed to go on a date, so I stalked him on facebook?
• did my friend once go on a date... so I stalked him on facebook?
• did I just come across him stalking other people on facebook?
• I would really not like to admit to that being probable. but it is.
• did I see him in a show once, and thought he was great, and because I really connected to his character on stage, I remember his face like we were best friends?
• happens more than you'd think...

He's turning his gaze my direction. I have approximately 0.0763 seconds to decide the course of action. I could go two ways with this:

1) I could say, "HEEEY!" like we know each other. And if he was a victim of my stalking in any form or another, and actually never met me at all, I could seamlessly pretend like I was calling to someone behind him, or really quickly raise my phone to my ear, like I had been talking to someone on the phone...
or
2) I could pretend not to see him, pretend that I was busy with my phone, continue to walk past, avoid any awkward confrontation.

I turn my head, just enough as to prevent potential eye-contact. I keep walking.

Just as I take a breath of relief, (he must not have known me after all!)

I hear:"Averill!"

(that's when I know they really know me--they pronounce my name correctly.)

"Averill! hey! how are you?!"

oh no.





"HEEEY"

Numbers

How strange time is.

I recently music directed a show at a local elementary school. One of the sixth grade girls was self-conscious about her costume because a cute boy was in the audience. She pointed him out, and I thought, “oh dear, honey. This man is some little kid’s father. He's way to old for you to be worried about what he thinks of your costume.” 

But then I realized she wasn't looking at the 30-something gentleman, who I had thought was attractive, but the 12-year-old boy sitting next to him. The kid had hair that stuck out at funny angles. His mouth was overwhelmed with braces. And his skinny little limbs were swimming in his clothes. That boy looked so young He was young! But my little actress was self-conscious around this cute, older boy. 

I remember being a giggly sixth grade girl.

• The conversation I had with my mother later that day:
• Me: “I remember when twelve-year-old boys looked so old!”
• Mom: “I remember when forty-year-old boys looked old.”
• Then we both burst into laughter.

Do you remember when you thought that a 12-year-old was old? Now what do you think of when you think of a twelve-year-old?*

And then as soon as you turn twelve, all you want to be is 16.

As a 12-year-old I thought, "when I am sixteen, I will be beautiful. I will have grown out of my big nose by then. I will be tall and lean and datable. Nay! Not just datable, but desirable."

Then I turned sixteen. I was pretty much as awkward as I had been my whole life--maybe more so. I was taller--now taller than most of my classmates, and I still didn't like my nose.  maybe went on 2 dates (max).

But it was ok, because in 4 years, when I turned 20—TWENTY! It'd all be figured out. I’d be in college,  I’d have already accomplished so much by then, it’d be hard to turn down all of the perfect job offers that would be flung at me every day—because I’d already have the perfect job. (what it was, I didn’t know—but it would be perfect.)

I mean, 18 was OLD (now, 18 is so young--am I right?), but you were still allowed to not know what you wanted to do when you grew up.

BUT 20 was wicked old--in fact you were grown up, and if you didn't have your life figured out by then... you’re pretty much a slacker.

Now I’m 20. My sixteen-year-old self is calling me a slacker.

The most knowledgable I ever was was at 16--My parents will attest to that--when I didn't know what I didn't know.


The more I know, the more I know how little I know--you know?

The better I become at things, like piano or tennis, the more I realize how much further I need to go to become actually good.

The more I discover about the world--the more I travel, the more experiences I have-- the more I discover how much more there is to know about the world.

The more people expect maturity, the more I realize how very immature I am. The more "adult" I officially become, the less "adult" I feel. 

What makes us "mature"? education? life experience? knowledge?

age?

I hope not.

I have lived 20 years, 5 months, and 16 days. 7,476 days exactly.  I realize to some people that sounds very young. 


When I'm 30, THEN I'll have all the answers.

yup. I'm sure of it. 

*I thought i'd add a picture of a 12-year-old kid to illustrate my point, but then I felt like a creep stealing a picture from a "12-year-old boy" google search. But--funny little moment-- the first picture that came up was one of Justin Bieber. bah ha ha.

My.Friends.Are.Awesome

I have been asked several times: "If BYU students don't drink... What do you do?"

Well, sometimes my friends throw EPIC Harry Potter Parties:

(made with butterscotch, and butter. no alcohol, in case you're wondering)

Me (Professor Trelawney), surrounded by nondescript Hogwarts students: Ammon (Slytherin perhaps?), Ashley (Ravenclaw Representative), and Jackie (Gryffindor Girlie)

Jackie, Chelsea, and Kelsey in the world they created!

Kelsey as Luna under the sorting hat!

Dan=Lupin. Obviously.

David as Serious

Proof. 

Madison as Bellatrix... COOL right?!

this is the sober college life. 

We need nothing but our imaginations (and a lot of work put into apartment #3) To have a MAGICAL Saturday night. 

sniffles on an airplane

Friday, August, 24th, 2012.

You know when you get on an airplane and there’s that one girl…

She starts to sniffle, then cough, but daintily, to try and mask the fact that she’s probably infecting the air you’re all sharing in this extremely enclosed space that is the plane. She asks for more tissues from the flight attendant, because she’s in the window seat and can’t get out to get them herself, so her row companions get to watch her wipe her desperately runny nose with her sleeve, because the flight attendant forgot about her request. And of course she can’t sleep, because she’s now coughing and sneezing (at least attempting to curtail the blows, but really just making it worse) and leaning against that awkwardly concave window, in an attempt to get comfortable. The whole scene is just a horrible annoyance.

You know what’s worse than sitting next to that person?? Being that person!

MISERY.

In the last week, starting Monday Night, I’ve gotten a total of 12 hours of sleep in 5 days.

Between writing a final essay, traveling to and from Denmark, studying for a final exam, packing, then catching the bus, I have gotten an average of 2-3 hours a night.

I used to have this awesome super power. I bragged about this super power: I could sleep pretty much anywhere, pretty much anytime, under pretty much any circumstance. As of this week, my power is lost. I tried to sleep on the bus to the airport on Wednesday, because we woke up at 4:30, and I’d gone to bed at 2, so I was exhausted. I tried to sleep on the plane ride to Copenhagen. I tried to sleep on the way back, after having walked around a city for 10 hours: the plane the train and the other train. Unsuccessful.

I tried to sleep in my own BED last night, but for fear of sleeping through my alarm, I didn’t sleep at all. Zilch.

I tried to sleep on the 3 hour bus ride to the airport this morning, and the EIGHT HOUR plane ride to Chicago.  All my efforts futile.

What’s wrong with me? My super-power is gone! All right—who in Cambridge was hiding the Kryptonite?

And because of this highly stressful week (I wrote a final paper, traveled to Denmark, sent in a final portfolio, and took a final exam) and extreme lack of sleep, apparently, I am now sick.

Super.

I finally just gave up trying to sleep, and started writing this. My poor airplane companions: this blog post is dedicated to you all. It’s hard enough being stuffed in this quarantined air vessel together for eight hours, without some miserable little sicky poisoning the air. And even though you don’t know me, and will probably never see me again, please accept my sincerest apology for my current state of being.

Next time I see a coughy, sneezy person on my airplane, I will not be annoyed. My heart goes out to you poor soul in sympathy. I’ll probably still overdose on vitamins and cold-preventatives as soon as I get off the plane though. No offense.