"Please don't let it be over, please don't let it be over!!" I chanted the words again and again, until the lights came up once more and my fears were laid to rest.
I was in elementary school, witnessing a live stage production for the very first time. The high school wherein my father taught was presenting a children's theater production of Peter Pan. The director, one of dad's colleagues and fellow fishing buddies, invited my mother to bring all us kids for an afternoon matinee.
Looking back, it wasn't a very well-funded production, to say the least. The sets and costumes were homemade, and when the script called upon the actors to "fly," this was accomplished by spreading their arms, jumping off the stage, and running up and down the auditorium aisles.
But I was transfixed. I had never witnessed anything so glorious in my entire, young life. Every time the lights would dim after the completion of a scene, (so the stagehands could transpose the set from, say, the Darling's nursery to the Land of Lost Boys), I would repeat the above mantra. I couldn't BEAR the thought of this magical, wonderful thing coming to an end. I laughed, cried, and clapped my belief of fairies until my hands were raw.
And when the lights dimmed for the last time, and the house lights came up on the theater, I believe my life had forever changed.
When I entered junior high school, one of the yearly field trips involved a morning when they'd bus all of us seventh and eighth graders over to the high school, to view a final dress rehearsal of the drama department's fall musical. We'd see the musical, then head back to school to attend our regular afternoon classes. After witnessing a rousing (but low budget!) production of Guys and Dolls, I remember sitting back in science class that afternoon, looking around at my classmates. How on earth could they possibly focus on e=mc2 after the magic we'd experienced just a few hours before?
When I finally reached high school and could be a part of these musicals myself, I worried that some of the "wonderment" of it all would fade, once I saw the non-magical, normal backstage areas and realized the amount of hard work these productions required. Not so. I loved every minute of every rehearsal. All day long, during my classes, I'd count down the hours until play practice. When the threat of school cancellations materialized because of approaching snow storms, I'd whisper a quiet prayer, hoping the blizzards would pass us. If there was no school, there was no rehearsal, and I simply couldn't live without that.
During all this time, though, I assumed that a career in the theater was out of the question. Surely, a career so unique and amazing could only be held by truly special people. I figured it was like royalty, you had to be born into it.
Then one day, riding home from church in the family car, I overheard a conversation between my parents. They were discussing the actor/comedian Bob Hope. Mom was telling Dad that Hope actually hailed not far from where we lived, in Cleveland, Ohio. She had read that he got his start impersonating Charlie Chaplin outside the Cleveland firehouses.
That's when it hit me: Bob Hope, the famous TV and movie star, had once been NORMAL?!! You mean, ANYONE could do this? It seemed impossible, but I prayed it was the truth. It was at that moment, in that station wagon, headed home from mass at St. Barnabas Catholic Church, that I made the decision to officially drop all ambition to become the next Ernest Hemingway. I was going to pursue a career in theater.
As you can probably guess, I never achieved the success of Mr. Hope. I've never lived in LA nor starred in a blockbuster movie. My limited TV appearances have been mostly local, and I can safely go out into public without being recognized or hounded for my autograph. But I can say this: the majority of my working life has been spent performing, and it has been purely GLORIOUS.
Honestly, I don't think I've lost one ounce of the wonderment I felt that afternoon, when the lights came up on Wendy, Michael and John. It's been a terrific ride! Oh, sure, there have been times when I've felt tired and fatigued, and didn't feel like getting myself "up" for a particular performance. But guess what? That feeling always, ALWAYS vanished the second I took one step onstage.
But it's time to focus on a finding a new career, now. There aren't many roles for women my age, and the live performance opportunities are far fewer in my new city. I'm really just fine with this, and have no problem making theater my hobby rather than my career. Except for one small thing.
I have no idea how to do this. Instead of auditioning for jobs, where I stood in front of a panel and "showed" them what I could do, I must now interview for a job, where I sit at a table with said panel and "tell" them what I can do. Tell them, that is, if I'm actually granted an interview in the first place. The hiring process has become, in my opinion, ridiculously impersonal. The applications must be filled out online, a resume attached to an email. After the employer reviews these documents, then, and only then, will the decision of an interview be made. You can imagine how bizarre my resume looks. I haven't received many interview requests.
But, unlike the title character in Peter Pan, it's time for me to grow up. I've been ridiculously spoiled so far, career wise. I've had the opportunity to do something about which I was really, truly passionate. I don't know if this next "chapter" will allow the same, but I do know that I am ready for it. If only they'd call me for that interview...
Thanks for Reading!!
