Splinters

I had another audition yesterday. This time I skipped the dance call and showed up for the singers' appointments. I saw a couple people I knew, schmoozed; made a few new friends (especially with those that liked my shoes. I will always be friends with people who like my shoes.)

The audition dragged on for a couple hours, only because we were waiting to be seen for so long. When I finally got into the room, the casting director was (gasp!) the same one from last Wednesday's audition that I had so (un)gracefully bombed.

Nevertheless, I sang my 16 bars, uptempo, straight from the show. Straight, simple, to the point.

Casting Directors like that.

Right?

I finished with a bang - not too showy, but definitely a self-indulgent moment. I belted a high D and held it long after the pianist had plunked her last chord. I was impressed with myself for pulling that out of nowhere, when all I had been doing for the last two hours was sitting around and picking the price tag off my new (fabulous!) shoes.

I grinned at the two men sitting in front of me.

"Mmmmmkay..." The Casting Director was not looking at me, but scribbling on my resume.

Translation: Next! -- or -- Don't call us, we'll call you.

"Are you a mover?" he asked, still looking down at my resume. Thankfully, I hadn't made up half of my resume. And, I loved my shoes.

"YES!" I answered, happy that he hadn't recalled last week's disaster. I was also very thankful I wasn't in a leotard.

"Mmmmmmkay, thank you!" -- he replied in a sing-songy voice.

Translation: You suck, get out of here.

"Sure." I was happy to avoid rush-hour traffic.

You see, folks - one does not audition all the time with hopes of getting "the part". The audition is the job. If you get a callback, it's like getting a 10% raise in your paycheck. If you get cast, it's like getting a promotion. And, if you get "the" part, it's like becoming president of the company. So, honestly, I am happy to audition because it's one more notch of experience on my belt, and, if the mood is right, I just might get to be president of the company.

I decided that it was early enough, so I might as well make good use of my musical theatre day and take a ballet class. Let us recall that I need a lot of practice.



I pointed the windshield towards Hollywood, feeling very proud of this potential accomplishment. When I arrived at the dance studio to sign my name in for the 6:00 turns class, I was greeted with a big question mark.

"Umm, that class has been canceled, sorry," the nice, skinny girl behind the counter said.

Damnit!

Okay, fine. Maybe I can go grab something to eat really quick and come back for Basic Ballet? Oh, wait, I forgot. Ballerinas don't eat.

So, I waited around for the class to start. I made a friend in the process - a great gal who was a journalist and had come to the studio to take the turns class, as well. We giggled together about not being real dancers, we gawked at the amazing people in the Jazz 3 (closed rehearsal) class, and we also watched the Intermediate Ballet class (in which her friend, a former dancer with a very prestigious company was participating.) I was sad to say goodbye, but it was time for my class.

I entered, late, much to my embarrassment. How on earth I could have arrived an hour and a half early for a class and end up being 5 minutes late is anybody's guess, but it happened.

I hurriedly changed out of my clunky Converse and slipped on my jazz shoes, circa 1991. With white ankle socks. Yeah, I know. Awesome.

The class was pretty full, so I found the best spot I could on the bar, only to realize that I had just broken up a girl and her boyfriend.

"Oh, sorry - did you guys want to stand next to each other? I didn't mean to..."

"FIRST RULE OF BALLET IS NO TALKING!" boomed the teacher's voice. He was a short, muscley man wearing glasses and a red bandana. He danced in his socks.

"THE TEACHER IS THE ONLY ONE WHO TALKS! NOW, PLIE!"

Whoops. Guess I forgot the first rule.
???

We continued through the warmup and routine, and I kept my lips shut. I was not going to get in trouble. No, not I. No krumping this time. This guy was serious. His quadriceps bulged right out of his baggy shorts. No way I was messing with him.

When we got to the floor exercises, I felt pretty proud. I mean, I had just accomplished the splits again the week before, so maybe my body would remember just what to do.

As I stretched my legs into position, I felt what seemed like a thousand tiny needles shooting through my calves and hamstrings.

"Ow!" The yelp was audible.

"NO TALKING," came the voice.

I looked down at my legs. Wooden splinters covered my black pants. When I tried to brush my legs off, two splinters attached themselves to my fingers. Aughhh! Pain! And here we were, sliding all over the floor...I was just trying to avoid being impaled by the huge chunks of wood that were attacking me.

"EVERYONE PLEASE PUT YOUR ARMS INTO FIFTH POSITION!" -- clearly talking to me.

I sighed, placed my arms over my head and continued with the rest of the class, splinters and all.

No pain, no gain.