Oh My: Part Two

And its original title:

Disco-y Spiders, Orphans, and Flirting with my Best Friend's Love/Twin

A while ago I told the story of how I, Donkey Girl, got up and sang on a stage for the first time. I believe I promised to post a second part the following month. Here we are, something like ten months later.

Oops.

Well, anyway, after that painful-yet-strangely-euphoric audition, the stage never really left me. Oh no, trust me, I was still shy as heck. Stage fright made me vomit before every performance. But I made it into the choir, got some mediocre solo, and became enticed by the allure of the school's drama department.

The first play of that year was Charlotte's Web. I, of course, being the obnoxious attention hog that I am, wanted to be Fern; and so, spent countless hours studying emotional expression, body language, and A LOT of how to cry on cue.

Unfortunately, however, I lacked an ability to project my timid voice. I became part of the chorus.

They make the show run, baby! Without the chorus, everything seems fake and stale on the stage. They are NECESSARY. Of course, when you're in the chorus, it never feels like that. In the middle school theater, the main actors go all "Mean Girls" and form their own elite clique. The chorus group is doomed to only be accepted in the tech week by some of the kindly seventh graders who actually have souls. I'm lookin' at you, Sydney <3

Until then, prepare yourself for grueling hours at rehearsal doing oh so much of nothing. And possibly getting asked out by a well-meaning cast member whose idea of persuading you to become his girlfriend is rolling around on the floor with his tongue sticking out, imitating a begging, panting dog (I wish I was exaggerating). I pretended to be a spy on an urgent mission that conveniently involved getting the heck out of there.

Honestly, want my advice? 

1.  Don't date in sixth grade. I'm sorry, he's not your future husband.
2. In case you neglected to follow piece of advice number one (and if you're a sixth grader, you probably have), please for the love of all that is good and holy go for that dorky but affectionate close friend instead of the aloof "bad boy" whose idea of quality humor is sassing the teacher. 

I'm usually a terrible person to take advice from, given that I will always choose the thing that sounds the most exciting (cough, hedonist), but in this case, experience is the better preacher.

But hey, I was only eleven anyways. My judgment was seriously lacking.

Anyway.... In that play, I was a frog, cricket, fairgoer, news reporter, annnnnnd baby arachnid-- Holy costume changes! And, in case you were wondering, there are few things more embarrassing than opening a play by hopping across the stage by yourself, no context, attempting to ribbit. This is tested and true.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn't have friends for most of sixth grade, and then I remember that they forced the entire student body to watch the first act of that play. Literally, the lights go on, no one knows what's going to happen, and then BAM! I jump on the stage, wearing an apron dress and pigtail braids, looking definitely human, and start croaking.

I had a boyfriend at the time. An "8pm is past my bedtime", "I'd hold your hand but it's too slimy and I'm not into guys tbh", "you really annoy me but I'm trying to be edgy and cool by dating someone" kind of boyfriend. Shortly after this, I did not have a boyfriend. For obvious reasons. I hid in my room and listened to a lot of Avril Lavigne music, using the whole thing mainly as an excuse to eat copious amounts of chocolate.

That's alright, though. The opening was a bit of an avant-garde disaster, but I loved my one line in the whole play, and I loved drama. I would endure anything.

Now, my spider costume was fun. In the sixth grade, I failed to realize that the 80s were done and over for a reason, and that people no longer wore fishnet gloves, leg warmers, or crimped their hair if they weren't borderline nutty. So if being a spider required a sparkly disco-ball reflecty, gauzey blouse and outrageously teased hair? No prob. I felt in my element.
As I said... and I hesitate to admit this.... it was how I dressed all the time.

My one fabulous line in the entire production, spoken as a baby spider, will live in infamy: Wilbur says he loves all of Charlotte's children, and I say.... here it comes.... "And we love you!" Aww, I was so cute-- Wait.  Ew, wait. Spiders?!?! I used to fear the little beasties. But, throughout the course of this production, I developed a certain "empathy" for my fellow arachnids, which spawned from this totally accurate portrayal. Now I'm the subject of ridicule for my treatment of such creatures:

The spider always gets a name (Melvin is a personal favorite).
I've thought of building a tiny dollhouse for all my spider friends to stay in during the cold winter so they don't freeze out there in the harsh climates, but it's always "You're so weird, Julia" and "Please set down the power tools". BUT REGARDLESS-- I AM NOT TRULY COMFORTABLE WITH ANY FORM OF LOVING SPIDERS. NOT SINCE THAT JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH MOVIE SCARRED ME FOR LIFE. I would be absolutely fine without observing a vaguely pedophilic French spider puffing on a flapper cigarette, but nooooo. There was also something in that movie that terrified me on the subject of rhinoceroses, I think? I feel like Roald Dahl books are the products of drug-induced hallucinatory nightmares.

Anyways. On from Exhibit A of "childhood trauma"... To my first musical, Annie. I, of course, was an orphan with no huge amount of speaking lines, and none of them solo... but who cares?! It's a musical! Out of many, many auditions, and a small-ish cast, I was deemed not to be a downright awful singer/dancer/actress. This was a new, unexplored realm for me-- being especially wanted, even for a small role, was weird and uncomfortable. I didn't like it at first. *cough*

Theater kids never really cycle out of performing until they graduate and move on to their next fix. It's the same group of kids auditioning, time after time, except some of them try out for both plays and musicals, and others go only for the latter. Drama teachers do pick favorites (hint: it's the ones who audition for both types), and they do know you're an attention hog if all you want to be is the main character.

Auditions for musicals are much more stressful than auditions for plays. For one thing, I dance like a chicken with its head cut off, listening to arrhythmic samba.

There were so, so many people pressed into that one tiny room, even though they'd split off the auditionees into three groups. I sang "Impossible" by Shontelle because I din't quite get the memo that you're supposed to sing theater songs when you audition for theater. In retrospect, it seems like it should have been obvious. My belt voice was iffy, at best. I was never called onstage to act.

I went to look at the cast list anyways. Maybe because I'm direly hopeful, or something like that. I certainly didn't expect to be in. Perhaps my aim was to crush the last of my remaining self-confidence after the disaster that had been my audition. I let myself be shoved to the side as the more confident clambered to the front. I waited timidly for them the disperse, either in disappointment or exuberance. I couldn't dare to think I would be among the chosen, could I? No one shouted out to tell me in advance. I thought I could hear people behind me snickering, "Look at that idiot, she thinks she's good enough to be on the list". 

But to my surprise... there it was. In perfect black type. The one time anyone's ever been exceedingly happy to be told they're going to be an orphan.

Chorus is so much different in musical theater. They work you constantly. Five minutes to spare? Go over the dance again. Again. Again. NAIL IT IN. You'll be sleep-singing by the end of it.

A musical will tangle itself in everything. You'll eat, drink, and breathe the story. The dance tingles every aching bone in your body, and no matter how much you protest it, you'll be a little sad when all the redundant rehearsals are over. Your grasp on real life is shaken-- You are your character, and no one can snatch it away from you.
Your favorite color becomes the fresh glaze of highlighter on a script. The taste on your lips is every word of the songs coursing through you and the tempest of emotions inside. Everything is shaken and muddled, down to your core, where you are someone different, and the meaning of it all seizes hold on your being. The word "acting" itself is a misnomer-- to act, you have to be.

That's why theater grips the hearts of those who partake in it; a beautiful, poignant art, which merges reality with the undefined, and brings both viewers and actors alike into the existence of another. A musical is a message in a bottle, plucked from an ocean of vastly unique lives and stories, all part of one greater Human Experience. And that music-- it communicates directly with the heart, like nothing else can.

Okay, FINE. Let's talk about something huge that I've barely brushed on so far: The Backstage.

This place is a maelstrom, especially during tech week, in the fantastic public school setting, where you've got a hormonal, mixed-gender group, all approximately the same age. Perfect. What bad could possibly happen? Surely not a chuck-ton of drama where it doesn't belong!!

Oh.... wait.

You know, there should be some kind of warning; a bolded, pop-out, magical Howler of a CAUTION sign at the cortex of the drama department. There are two types of drama you'll experience when involved in the production of a play-- and only one of them do you think you're signing up for. Throughout the blossoming development of your show, you'll come to intimately know 5 things.

1. Why that 7th grade girl is crying in the bathroom (It's because the teacher didn't cast her as the love interest of her crush)
2. Exactly whom is in love with whom, at all times of the day, and the fights that invariably break out because of it
3. How many people can have meltdowns in a single tech week
4. What weight of emotional burden and sleep deprivation will cause even the nicest person to snap at someone for stealing their granola snack
5. Who's that girl-- dang, she looks fantastic in bright red lipstick!

By high school, thankfully, most of these occurrences mellow into subtleties, and thereby an environment of genuine peace, charity, life-long friendship, and artistic passion is cultivated in these grueling months. But in middle school.... oh boy. Strap on your ruthlessly defensive emotional shell and try not to develop a crush on anyone, whomsoever. This is one occasion where you'll want to stay out of the limelight.

Despite all of this... I truly believe that theater creates a family unlike any other. Take strangers, enemies, begrudged acquaintances, the inseparable, the lonely, the broken-- mesh them all together into a beautiful tapestry of friendship. There are disputes and clashing personalities.There's always the person who-- since this is a family, there must be-- reminds you of your crazy uncle Ralph, in all his sybaritic glory. But I promise, it is a beauty unparalleled. Family is mutual reliance, benevolence, frustration giving way to affection, and beyond anything else, it is Home. The play itself is a refuge from the deluge of life.

Unfortunately, it took me far too long to realize the kind of sanctuary such an experience offers. Over a year passed before I became part of another play. Yes, I had auditions. I was rejected again and again. Little by little, the passion dimmed from my eyes.

How to Be Interesting

So there I am, sitting in the student lounge, chocolate smeared across my cheek, an anthropology textbook cracked open on my lap; I'm down to my last pencil, and "Toothbrush" is playing for what seems to be the fifth time in thirty minutes. It's Monday morning. Somehow the din of the surrounding chatter, the smack of pool balls, and the clacking of computer keys only add to the pangs of alienation. Everyone in here must be at least six feet tall and/or wearing flawless makeup from Sephora. I, meanwhile, am small, timid, have been walking around with a conspicuous rolling bag, and apparently give a constant expression of 'I don't know what the heck I'm doing'. Perfect.

My first day of college began spotlessly-- and by spotlessly, I of course mean that I somehow managed to get into hot water before my first class. Try beating that one, folks. (And as a side note, avoid power walking in the library).

Although I'd tried everything to feel prepared for this day (the usual visualization, school supply splurge, crying in a corner, etc.) there was nothing to keep me from the writhing mass of anxiety I became the moment I walked up the staircase to History. Walked is nondescript: My bag thump, thump, thumped up every step and I barely caught myself out of a stumble at the top of the flight. I'm certain my mom would have reminded me, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right." Unfortunately, my brain was very committed to analyzing every possible negative outcome.

It's been said that I allow dreams to influence me too deeply, and this may be true. I see them, however, as subconscious references rather than omens or mandates. And almost every morning, I force Hogan into the role of psychotherapist. It eludes me as to how he's so enduringly patient."I had a dream last night", I start-- he must be considering revoking our friendship for the third time this week-- "I couldn't sing. It was really distressing."

Imagine him giving an exaggerated expression of concern accompanied by no vocal change whatsoever. That's Hogan's usual. It's endearing, trust me.

He says, "Huh, sorry. Any idea what the psychological reasoning is?"

The dream had involved evil sororities, Myers-Briggs types, and my sister stealing my singing voice. My memory of a dream is rarely vague, but the plots themselves are convoluted-- more often than not, I find the gaping holes in logic difficult to explain. In this dream my sister had stolen my talents one by one and been praised for them while I struggled to fit in. Apparently she was kind of Ursula, but worse and with less legs. There was a goat somewhere here. I was playing with a snow globe. Idk.

Hogan's gotten used to me analyzing things like this to an almost unhealthy extent-- the underlying psychological metaphors, and so on. It stems from my regrettable middle school mentality. My parents disliked Freud, therefore I vehemently obsessed over him. So it goes. Sorry, Mom.

"It's because I'm scared of entering college and not being comparatively smart, or special, at all. The only things that could give me an edge academically are Jackie's talents. Focus and organization... which I don't have. I'll just be stumbling along."

And that, dear friends, is what eats me up at night:

Hahaha, of course not. You probably wouldn't be reading this blog if you weren't looking forward to hearing about my latest dumb decision-- you all know it's coming by this point.

Anyways, there I am in the student lounge. I've spent my first two-hour break between classes color-coding the syllabus and marking all the assignments in my planner (I'd like you to acknowledge that as a feat for me), and now that it's the second break of the day, time is stretching on into what feels like fantastic gravitational singularity. I've already gone to the cafe for lunch, fed a squirrel, and speculated the possibility that I could get through this whole school year without talking to anyone. Maybe if I pretended to be deaf? More on that later.

I glance down into my bag and the corner of the Book peeks up at me. The cover is an almost obnoxious shade of mustard yellow, yet there's something transfixing about it-- perhaps compared to long passages on dendrochronology, perhaps because of all the events leading up to this-- I pull it up with two fingers and slide the textbook off of my lap. The title screams, in bold black letters, and on no uncertain terms, "This Book Will Change Your Life".

Rude.

And so, I open to the first page. 

Now, ladies and gents, a quick fun fact about me: I need things to be hard. If they aren't, I feel insulted, lose interest, and then purposefully worsen the situation until it meets my criteria of uncomfortability. Examples? Okie doke. 

So imagine, if you will, my reaction to the following: I open to the first page, eagerly anticipating the wondrous experiences that await me, only to meet the passage, "As this is your first day, you should warm up with an easy task that will only change your life a little bit." What-- WHAT?! 

Oh, and furthermore, "Choose one of the following options". The first one was "Do one press-up". I feel like that kind of sets the tone for the rest of the list. 

I would like to state that, for the record, this list of things is half comprised of my daily activities. 

That being said, I am not, by nature, athletically inclined-- psychologically or physically. My daily exercise consists of walking to the fridge and back, to the freezer and back, and wandering aimlessly around the kitchen while I try to decide whether I'm hungry or just bored. When my sister Olivia competes in the Olympics (as she surely will) I would like you all to reflect on this irony. 

That being said, I am marginally good at two things: ice skating and yoga. I guard these jealously, because I have to be better at something, anything, even if only because they've never tried. We call it the eldest sister complex.

Anyways, that's how I ended up at the gym on Saturday.
You may be asking how a yoga class relates to this challenge to do one singular press-up, and in response, I politely ask you not to judge me.

(I enjoy yoga for the simple reason that it makes me feel sore, in a good way. Well, okay, also-- it's the least possible effort, yet people still ask, with a mixture of awe and understandable surprise, "Oh, wow, you do yoga??" I think it gives them the impression that I've also saved fifteen orphaned puppies, dabbled in Taoism, and drink green tea every morning.)

But that's not the important part. I hope you haven't forgotten that I have issues.

On the way out of the yoga studio, every Saturday morning, you'll pass by several, equally strident group exercise classes. They're all filled with muscular thirty-somethings in color-coordinated athletic wear and high-brand running shoes who are, unequivocally, better than you. So I really can't explain why I looked at the schedule, saw something called "BODYCOMBAT", and said to myself, "hm, that sounds like a reasonable idea." But I did, and I walked right into a room blasting pop rock and boasting a regime of cardioboxing.

If I could offer you one piece of advice for every year, all the gloriously pragmatic bits that I dish out but fail to follow myself, I have a pretty good idea of what I'd be saying.

Okay, but trust me, this time I have good advice. I promise. I triple pinkie promise (ish).
Now listen up; I'm only going to say this once.

Anyways, I walk in there, feeling energized from yoga, and within about five minutes, come to the very definitive conclusion that, out of everyone in the room, I would be the first to die in a zombie apocalypse. They have rooted me out as the weakest specimen, I am sure. "Uma Thurman" is playing. The instructor has us doing roundhouse kicks and curb stomps to the beat. I'm wheezing. The lady next to me could take out a full grown Kodiak bear. 

Perhaps purely out of pity for me, the instructor advises us to "visualize" a scenario for our "technique". It gives more stamina and passion to those punches (I can attest to that).

So there I am! Fighting ninjas in the upper story of a fitness club while the music is going all bahDUMbahDUMbahDUMduhDUM (etc). They're swarming me from all directions, arising from the shadows. I feint to the right and swing my fist to catch one in the jaw-- he topples, because he's not actually a good ninja (due to a tragic backstory involving polymyalgia) -- and then I snap kick him in the ribs. The next strangles me from behind, I elbow him sharply to the stomach, everyone's cheering me on, and then--

Admittedly, I zoned out. Perhaps, you could say, got carried away. 

-- I uppercut myself straight in the jaw.

Don't ask me how or why this happened. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm spiteful and stubborn. I shrugged it off. We went on to punch imaginary speed bags and I walloped myself (more lightly this time) in the nose. Then across my own hand. "You could be a future boxer right here, you have the power and the drive," the instructor offered cheerfully. My hand was starting to bleed.

I walked out of there with an ego more wounded than my sore jugular. 

Now wait, here comes my favorite part. Usually, by 6am at the latest, Jackie is doing crunches in her room, having already jogged/walked the dogs, eaten breakfast, applied makeup, gotten dressed with acute fashionable tact, posted a flawless selfie on Instagram, and read her Bible. Now, knowing that, this is actually what she said to me.

And, of course, the book was there to remind me when I got home--