Boy oh boy, NaBloPoMo! Right now I’m in San Francisco with my fella and some of my cast-mates, sampling a mountain of garlicky delights at The Stinking Rose, after having taken a stroll through the lights and lanterns of Chinatown! Once we’re done here, we’re going to walk over to the Eureka Theatre to see some of my chums in Pal Joey! What a glorious evening of food, friendship, and culture!
Oh, wait. That’s what I was supposed to be doing tonight. Instead, I’m sitting in my bed with my ankle wrapped up, braced, iced, and elevated, because I sprained the everloving shit out of it at a Christmas party last night. Awesome. That’s what I get for trying to sweep moodily out into the pitch-black mountain night while full of both all the feelings and all the wine. Will I never learn? Luckily, two of my favorite boys were on-hand to provide me with ice and a lot of hugs immediately following the incident, and today I was greeted at the theatre by crutches, bandages, a sturdy brace, and other such accoutrements that my costars were generous enough to supply. I made it through the student matinee (packed to the gills with about 200 children, all 6-years-old or under; whenever they’d laugh, it sounded like you were about to be hit with a tidal wave of cherubim) without looking too much like a lumbering, limping monster, I think, and now it’s nuttin’ but bed-rest until tomorrow evening. I’m hoping most of the swelling and pain will have abated by then, because turns out my more frantic moments are not nearly as funny when my fastest walking speed is “continental drift.”
Remember that little girl I danced with during our audience crossover two weeks ago? Her class wrote letters about coming to see the show, and hers was all about how the Stepmother was her favorite, and how excited she was that we asked her to dance, and then she drew the best picture of me ever:
This job, y’all. Sometimes it is kind of the greatest.