It's week seven of school, so I'm nearly half-way through my first semester of grad school. Tomorrow I have my first test of the semester (and the year), and while I'm not altogether excited about it, I haven't been in "frantic Phil mode", as I had sort of expected. Which worries me, somewhat. But on the other hand, maybe that's a good thing? While I don't believe it's good to be OVER-confident, I have a history of forever believing that I could never do well enough. While others might have seen that as a reason to not try as hard, my Jewish background deemed it better to kill yourself trying rather than being human about it. I must be at an impasse somewhere in between, at least for the moment. The worry comes from the fact that other people are freaking out. Again, family instinct tells me that I, too, should also be freaking out.
Only I'm not. A local theater (and by 'local', I mean it's 20 miles away from me) held auditions for an improv theater that's looking to form an all-new ensemble. Note to self: never go to an audition immediately after taking part in a study group. Because no matter how much you've just exercised your brain for school, bringing up quantitative mathematics, even when it's supposed to "over-the-top", is just plain not funny.
The audition was hands down the weirdest one I've experienced, and I've done quite a few of those puppies. It was like some crazy improv teaching lesson, only since I was about ten minutes late (and four dollars short--thanks, parking people), I missed all the warm-up time and just got thrown on stage into some scenes. I'm talking cold turkey that's just been plucked and knows it's naked.
One of the notes the guy running the audition kept telling me was that I kept shifting feet every time I did a scene. Every scene got harder the more I stood still, but I was pretty sure it wasn't from nervousness. I'm no stranger to improv; just a stranger to these crazy people. It wasn't until I hopped into the car and was coasting down the highway on my way home that it hit me. The urge to pee, I mean. And then--AND THEN--my jaw dropped in sheer mortification at what that meant. I was up on stage, surrounded by nine other people, in the glare of bright stage lights, doing the fucking pee dance.
If, by some freak chance, they actually decide they want me on their ensemble team, that means either A. I did a superb job of hiding the fact that I really, really, really had to pee (heck, if even I forgot, that's definitely a possibility) or B. these people have a sick sense of humor and enjoyed watching me squirm. Let's hope it's not the latter.