You guys, I’m being super side-tracked right now by writing my blog.
…On the way home from rehearsal tonight, I got this bitchin’ hair design idea for the show, and was just standing in the bathroom makin’ hair topiaries when I realized what time it was and that I hadn’t written my post yet today. So I’m stopped mid-point, and look like a frizzy cross ‘tween Hagrid, Pippi Longstocking, and a Fraggle.
…If I were a more farcial character it would be fucking perfect. But I’m not, and it isn’t.
…I stopped anyway, so that I could do my duty by my pledge to you: the readers, and me: the scribbler.
Let it be noted.
…Tonight’s rehearsal was more “selective” in it’s scene work (which I like), and required me to be a maniacal energy boost of ridiculous hysterics both coming and going. Short boosts of fuel, as I provide throughout most of the show. And (continuing on my current streak) I have had yet another “lift” added, mid a grand performance of hoisting in hurrahs…making my new goal (as per Mdm. Director): “to somehow finagle out of ever having to walk at all, throughout the entirety of the show.”
If hard work, dedication, and my co-actor’s backs can do it: IT SHALL BE DONE!
…Poor bastards.
Our Sir Toby is endlessly bench pressing me, at this point. But then, he gets to grope me lots too, so I figure: that’s free second-basing at the very least, which is (I feel) pretty fair trade in the scheme of things.
My boob kinda hurts from this one scene.
…Just the one boob, which is totally my fault, cuz I’m the one grabbin’ Sir Andrew’s hand and slapping myself with it for an extended grip of time. Won’t be so bad once I have corset boning to help stave off the brunt of the abuse. Apparently, Maria likes it rough.
(Totally innocent shrug.)
…Meanwhile: Hooray for rehearsal skirts, so I can begin playing again with the flow and mass of all that material below me. Less Nancy-ish* (“Oliver” referencing), with my wenching this time. I don’t have the luxury of just hoisting it up to flash me knickers whenever I need to get it out of m’damn way.
Being a girl on stage is so much work, you guys…you don’t even know.
…Sure, dudes have coats and things that run hot in the lights, and if anything “period” is being attempted, layers begin to incorporate about two out from that in certain specific instances playing “outside” or “per season.” But I promise you that women win in this battle, and always will. Even if they play “whores.” I know, because I’ve played tons of ‘em. You’d be surprised how many clothes can be worn when you are “technically” naked. Especially in period pieces. Just layers and layers and layers of shit on top of other shit, on top of more.
There’s a reason that women did almost nothing gregarious or sportish for centuries of time. It wasn’t so much the “society rules.” They physically just couldn’t. You try wrapping your head around wale boning poking into your boobs and crotch and hips, while sucking you in so tight you can’t breathe, then putting twelve layers of underwear between that and your top skirts and waistcoats, and boots…and all that hair…and hats, every day from age eleven or twelve until (merciful) death. Then go out, hoisted sidesaddle, “riding to hounds” on weekends. Or play a stationary game of lawn tennis. Or consider “a turn about the room” equivalent exercise to thirty minutes on the cross trainer at the gym.
…No wonder they fucking fainted all the time.
It’s GREAT discipline, and helps build the hell out of a character though, so the suffering and sweating is totally worth it.
…Bruised boobs, aching backs, suffocating organs, stinging knap-hands, pinched shoes, gallons of sweat, et al.
It takes a special kind of person to do this all willingly, for almost no pay at all.
…We’re sorta masochistic freaks, really.
And you totally wanna be us, when you grow up.
Admit it.
~D
