It’s amazing how a performance lifts you out of real life. The past two days have been nothing but a blur of rehearsal, preparation, and brief intervals of classes that I barely even remember. There’s always a sort of wistful feeling when a performance is over—even a minor performance, like the one I just completed.
Getting ready, right before the show, is incredibly nerve-wracking but simultaneously exhilarating. I prep, I practice, I primp, until everything is as right as I can make it in the short time I have left. Costume is essential: whisked out of my typical denim skirt/solid top ensemble, my new outfit defines me, transmitting vibes of a different persona, the person I will become on stage.
Performing itself is, for me, like an out of body experience. I hardly know I’m there as it’s going on; it isn’t me in control; I’m only half-conscious; and then BAM, it’s all over—all the hard work, the hours, the energy: gone.
Then there are the regrets: I was so much better during the rehearsals—I didn’t come off as well as I should have—if only I could do it again!
Then the rush of watching the rest of the show, my amazing fellow performers; then, after the show, enjoying (and evading) congratulations from friends, and trying to discourage well-intentioned audience members offering overenthusiastic praise that I don’t really deserve.
I always hang around until the very end, lingering at the performance venue until everyone is gone and the disassembling and clean-up is nearly complete. I hate that part, the ending: going back to my dorm room, on a high with nowhere to go, no way to channel the remaining energy.
So here I am. There’s no way I’m getting any schoolwork done tonight. Tomorrow I’ll confront real life again, but tonight, I’ll admire my leftover makeup and dream about glamour now past.
Getting ready, right before the show, is incredibly nerve-wracking but simultaneously exhilarating. I prep, I practice, I primp, until everything is as right as I can make it in the short time I have left. Costume is essential: whisked out of my typical denim skirt/solid top ensemble, my new outfit defines me, transmitting vibes of a different persona, the person I will become on stage.
Performing itself is, for me, like an out of body experience. I hardly know I’m there as it’s going on; it isn’t me in control; I’m only half-conscious; and then BAM, it’s all over—all the hard work, the hours, the energy: gone.
Then there are the regrets: I was so much better during the rehearsals—I didn’t come off as well as I should have—if only I could do it again!
Then the rush of watching the rest of the show, my amazing fellow performers; then, after the show, enjoying (and evading) congratulations from friends, and trying to discourage well-intentioned audience members offering overenthusiastic praise that I don’t really deserve.
I always hang around until the very end, lingering at the performance venue until everyone is gone and the disassembling and clean-up is nearly complete. I hate that part, the ending: going back to my dorm room, on a high with nowhere to go, no way to channel the remaining energy.
So here I am. There’s no way I’m getting any schoolwork done tonight. Tomorrow I’ll confront real life again, but tonight, I’ll admire my leftover makeup and dream about glamour now past.
