As you may know, I’m going to be in a play this weekend, with Mr. Apron.  The joke I keep telling is that I got tired of being a theatre widow when he went off to do his plays (he’s been in at least six on stage, and directed at least one other  in the time we’ve been together).  As the rehearsals ran steadily later, I would fall asleep on the couch waiting for him.  I love to see him on stage.  Selfish me, I always derive such pleasure of watching him, that he must be performing solely for my benefit.  I’ve been involved with his shows in some part before, whether offering ideas, dramaturgy, or helping out with hair, make-up and costumes.  But I haven’t been on stage since 2001, when I was in Bernard Slade’s “Same Time, Next Year” as part of a peer’s student senior thesis in college.  She went all bisexual with the show, mixing genders in each scene; you know, stretching the bounds of on-stage relationships and such.  My father came up to me after the show, and, with a twinkle in his eye, told me he accepted my being a lesbian.  I thanked him, and told it was called acting.  My boyfriend at the time almost blew a gasket when I told him I’d be on stage in lingerie and there would be a kiss or two (straight and lesbian).  Again, it was called acting.  In his paranoia (and undiagnosed schizoid tendencies), he expressed the fear I’d “feel something” when I kissed either gender actor, and leave him because of the “spark” I’d shared on stage.  Uh huh. 

And now I’m back on stage, sharing a spark with my husband.  We put in 13 hours yesterday, between the loading at the warehouse, set construction, costume debacles, sitz probe (sounds evil, doesn’t it?) with the orchestra, and cue-to-cue run through.  We got home at nearly midnight, and I’m back at work, for an insanely scheduled week. 

I have a laundry list of things to work during the show, and things to buy for the show, neither of which I have time to practice or purchase.  Our nightgowns are transparent and no one has provided full-length slips.  Mr. Apron’s trousers fall down, and his costume, which is supposed to be military, looks like a marching band reject.  Our parasols (guaranteed not to break, so we bought no extras) are breaking.  And my skirt, which was ordered for me from the rental company, who had been given information that I am 5’0″ tall, was so long that I not only have to wear it at my bust, but they had to hem 2 more inches.  I’m swimming in fabric. 

Somehow or another, we’ll figure out our blocking and footwork, the costumes will be patched together, and the curtain wil rise on the debut of my return to the stage.  As we get closer and closer, I know I’ll be torn between the impending excitement of performing a great show for people I love (and strangers, too), and the exhaustion factor that led Mr. Apron to remark, as we drove home down deserted streets last night, “You’re never doing another show with me again, are you?”

It’s certainly been a learning experience for me — my first musical, my first time learning dance steps outside of aerobics class — and it hasn’t all been positive.  I’ve been so frustrated trying to match pitches and learn lyrics, not to mention exhausted on mornings after rehearsal.  But it has taught me about myself.  Even if I’ve never done a music before, I remember the excitement of getting my costume, of learning what hairstyles we’ll need, of walking the stage, of looking out at a dark theatre and imagining an attentive audience. 

And I can’t wait.

P.S.  Blogs may be less frequent this week!