In my first-ever community theater experience, the most awkward, uncomfortable moments by far (other than the audition) were the curtain calls.
Maybe part of that was because we didn't practice that bit until nearer to opening night.
Most certainly, though, after giving it some overthought, I believe it was because the mask was off and the role was done.
As soon as I said my last line and the lights went out, my brain declared, "Good night, 'Opal.' Hello Beth. Retreat!" And my feet obeyed.
But as I spun the wrong way toward the exit, I was body-checked by another actor on the pitch-black stage and spun directly back toward the audience. Lights up, I was flustered and felt exposed.
Everyone was watching. Logic states the audience was also watching during the play, but during the show, I wasn't me. I was Opal.
Unfortunately, logic didn't get the final word, and curtain calls remained a challenge for my introverted self every night.
After a couple of those body checks, I learned to aim my feet the right way in the dark and stay to the final bow surrounded by the wonderful cast members on all sides.
I've got another sort of curtain call vibe happening.
It's been a rough, complicated journey since Mother's Day weekend. So many parts and roles to play. POA. Advocator. Executor. Grieving daughter.
Things get a little dark after rounds of estate clean-up and all of the complications. I want off this stage before everyone watches me implode. I’m exposed and tired and want to spin on my heels and exit stage left. Retreat!
Maybe go hide out at home under the bed with a fuzzy blanket and a cat. Maybe sit at the laptop and write a fiction universe so far from this one that I’m swept away to elsewhere, blissfully unaware of current happenings.
Or maybe go live in France.
But, alas.
Someone comes along with a body check, a kind elbow in my ribs (or an arm around my shoulder) and spins me back before I can bail—or implode. They help me aim my feet in the right direction and stay on task.
There’s only this last bit to do.
Then the lights will come up and the darkness will lift.
This is lovingly dedicated to the ones in my orbit who’ve stayed through the curtain call for show after show after show…
