AAAARRRRGGGHHH I AM SUPER SICK AGAIN WHAT THE HELLLLLLLLL. No fever, but a bunch of gunk in my nose and lungs. And, of course, a throat that burns like the Great Fire of Rome. Like, I’m pretty sure Nero is hanging out in my throat with his fiddle, all “yeeeeaaaahhhhh!” Ridiculous.
I can’t really find my words lately. I go through cycles, and we’re currently in a “Heather forgets how to actually write” cycle. It happens. It’s unfortunate that it should happen this particular week, where I want to hang on to every single little moment in that theatre. This is — sickness and lack of productivity in every other part of my life be damned — the best week I’ve ever had. Just a little taste of the big leagues.
(I’m standing up straight and still in the wings. I haven’t worn a gown that wasn’t a costume in over a decade. I feel way too tall. There are musicians rushing all around me, fussing with bows and reeds and valves. Most of the cast mills about, un poco agitato. Lisa brushes behind me with a quick, polite “excuse me” and heads over to one of the crew members to have her mic adjusted one last time. Greg, our tall, dashing Joe, strolls up beside me and lifts his chin with a smile. “You sure do make a fella stand up straighter,” he muses before languidly drifting away. The women of the cast have now formed a little circle, where we discuss, inevitably, our hair. Billy bursts in with his big, wonderful grin to wish everyone luck, and the orchestra begins tuning. A second or two of silence, a collective breath, Billy strides on stage…and we’re off.)
Two more performances to go. A girl could get used to this.