I woke up this morning with the insides of my thighs on fire. Was it because of friction caused by a pair of ears rubbing against them? No. (Though that probably didn’t help. Zing.) It was because of rehearsal yesterday and the crazy squatty jungle cat move Michelle had us doing. And the plank-pose-to-donkey-kick-walk-it-back-up-and-do-it again-a-zillion-more-times thing. A burlesque work out is not the same as yoga, people. That woman is in some good fucking shape. She’s hard to keep up with on a good day but she must have had her Wheaties yesterday. And that was just the warm-up. Then we moved on to a solid hour and a half of rehearsing the Wiggle Room number. It’s an awesome number. Super fun. Full of thrills and spills. And it’s my Mount Fuji. Meaning it’s really hard to do, but I am going to climb that motherfucker. But right now I’m only, eh, about half-way up it. Learning complicated group choreography is not easy for someone like me who thought it would be more high-brow and academic to focus on Shakespeare instead of Sondheim with my theatre major. (Fat lot of good you’re doing me now, thesis paper on Titus Andronicus. Thanks for the jobs. You’re the worst play in the canon, by the way. Loser.) So, yeah. I’ve been spending a lot of time asking my body to do things and having it respond to my requests like a drunk hobo passed out on the sidewalk. (“Huzzz, wha? Frack. Where’s my trombone?” it says to me before peeing on a 7-11 window.) My body is starting to sober up and come around after many curses and threats, but the thing is — now it’s my mouth that’s a problem. Have you ever watched a dancer and noticed her lips moving because she’s either lip synching with the music or counting steps? It’s weird. And somewhere along the line I’ve picked up this dirty nasty habit. If I’m not counting beats, I’m murmuring this strange language that I’ve created that’s a mish mash of steps and verbalization of music notes. Badadah Bah Bump – Kick! Badadah Bah Bump – Kick! Step Step Step Kick! Badoodoo Doooooooh Wahhhhhhhhhh Wahhhh — Football Shiiiiiimmmmmmmmyyyyyy!! I didn’t even know I was doing it until it was pointed out to me. I couldn’t control it. Like a tic. Like I have burlesque Tourette’s. It’s no good. Is there a medication for this? A burly equivalent of Clonidine? Now I’m worried about overcompensating for it and performing with a slightly psychotic smile plastered on my face. I don’t know. Maybe it could work. Maybe that could be my angle.
“Welcome to the stage Ray Ray Sunshine — The Slighty Off-Putting Temptress!”