Friday, May 25, 2007
Alone at 3:00am
I opened the show tonight. I gave it my all and I twinkled. I did what I could do because that is why I was hired and because I like my cast and crew. If anyone deserves my best, they do.
But here I am, 3 o'clock in the morning, sitting in my bed alone and feeling - I dunno - numb. Bland. Beige. I hate to slime my negativity all over Leon and because of that - and the fact that he chooses to, on a daily basis, consume more alcohol than I know how to accept - I opt to come into my bedroom and sleep alone. I can't help but question if I am a very good girlfriend or performer and am pretty sure that if I could smear away the numb, I would find a swamp of self-pity, self-loathing and self-obsession. Ug, sounds like the perfect description of an actor.
During one the numbers tonight, as I bopped up and down in my bright blue bathing suit, I started to fantasize. It started with the memory of the coffee shop that Jordan and I went to the day he left me. It was in Kits and it was riddled with upwardly mobile couples, pushing their beautiful children in much too expensive strollers. Man, did I stare after these people's lives longingly, sitting beside a man I knew did not want to marry me or have a child with me. So, tonight, behind the protection of my prop sunglasses, I shut my eyes and pictured what I might be doing at that exact moment if I was living the life of one of those couples. I certainly wouldn't be wearing a blue bathing suit and singing with fake high squeeled excitment. I imagined that I would be in my home in Kits, curled up on a big, puffy couch, fire lit, reading. We would be playing Ella in the background and beside me on the end table would sit the baby monitor. My partner, funny and sweet, would be working on the tail ends of some creative endeavor - a painting? his novel? some composition piece? maybe even a design proposal for an advertising agency? We would be content and there would be no spotlights or applause. Since it is my fantasy, the evening would end with him and I stepping into the baby room's together to take a quiet look at our proudest piece of co-created art and then we would retreat to our amazing master suite and have great sex.
This kind of life used to be my definition of hell. It was too simple, too predictable, too suburban. Now, as I run off the stage hell bent for leather, ripping off my blonde wig to replace it with a black one as several different hands tear off my current costume while I hop on one foot toward my next entrance desperately trying to jam my red tap shoe onto my other foot before the next count of eight begins, I long for this simplicity. Now, as I watch my boyfriend shmooze and network the way every actor needs to as he cracks his fourth beer, casually flirting with the ASM as he reads a text message from his ex-girlfriend all the while checking out the possibilities of returning for next year's season, which would mean, of course, a result of him being gone for six months, I long for that simplicity. Is it because I am thirty and suddenly feel too old for all that crap? Or is it really just the grass-is-always-greener sydrome?
Two more days and I will be back in Vancouver for THREE DAYS OFF IN A ROW. Sheesh. My pulled hamstring, tired voice and battered soul needs these three days, like a crack addict needs their pipe.
It's gotta be only uphill from here.
But here I am, 3 o'clock in the morning, sitting in my bed alone and feeling - I dunno - numb. Bland. Beige. I hate to slime my negativity all over Leon and because of that - and the fact that he chooses to, on a daily basis, consume more alcohol than I know how to accept - I opt to come into my bedroom and sleep alone. I can't help but question if I am a very good girlfriend or performer and am pretty sure that if I could smear away the numb, I would find a swamp of self-pity, self-loathing and self-obsession. Ug, sounds like the perfect description of an actor.
During one the numbers tonight, as I bopped up and down in my bright blue bathing suit, I started to fantasize. It started with the memory of the coffee shop that Jordan and I went to the day he left me. It was in Kits and it was riddled with upwardly mobile couples, pushing their beautiful children in much too expensive strollers. Man, did I stare after these people's lives longingly, sitting beside a man I knew did not want to marry me or have a child with me. So, tonight, behind the protection of my prop sunglasses, I shut my eyes and pictured what I might be doing at that exact moment if I was living the life of one of those couples. I certainly wouldn't be wearing a blue bathing suit and singing with fake high squeeled excitment. I imagined that I would be in my home in Kits, curled up on a big, puffy couch, fire lit, reading. We would be playing Ella in the background and beside me on the end table would sit the baby monitor. My partner, funny and sweet, would be working on the tail ends of some creative endeavor - a painting? his novel? some composition piece? maybe even a design proposal for an advertising agency? We would be content and there would be no spotlights or applause. Since it is my fantasy, the evening would end with him and I stepping into the baby room's together to take a quiet look at our proudest piece of co-created art and then we would retreat to our amazing master suite and have great sex.
This kind of life used to be my definition of hell. It was too simple, too predictable, too suburban. Now, as I run off the stage hell bent for leather, ripping off my blonde wig to replace it with a black one as several different hands tear off my current costume while I hop on one foot toward my next entrance desperately trying to jam my red tap shoe onto my other foot before the next count of eight begins, I long for this simplicity. Now, as I watch my boyfriend shmooze and network the way every actor needs to as he cracks his fourth beer, casually flirting with the ASM as he reads a text message from his ex-girlfriend all the while checking out the possibilities of returning for next year's season, which would mean, of course, a result of him being gone for six months, I long for that simplicity. Is it because I am thirty and suddenly feel too old for all that crap? Or is it really just the grass-is-always-greener sydrome?
Two more days and I will be back in Vancouver for THREE DAYS OFF IN A ROW. Sheesh. My pulled hamstring, tired voice and battered soul needs these three days, like a crack addict needs their pipe.
It's gotta be only uphill from here.
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