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| Circa 1994 - Clearly giving Meryl Streep a run for her money. |
Way back in the olden days, when I was a single parent and
had memory cells in my brain . . . (Hmmm...startling revelation: The disappearance
of memory cells began when I was a single parent . . . interesting.)
Where was I? Oh, yes . . . the olden days . . . when we had
more remotes than chargers. In an effort to provide more enriching stimulation
than the afterschool snack-time fare of Fresh
Prince of Bel Air and what I later found out to be the traumatizing family
fun time Saturday night viewing of Profiler,
I began to audition and be cast in plays with the new community theater group in
our small town. The motivation for deciding to involve myself in an activity
that would force me out of the house was to provide a strong and culturally competent
role model for my children. Because, honestly, if I didn’t feel so pressured to
be Super Mom, I would have sat with my kids as much as possible in front of the
TV. Back then it was a time when we
were all engaged in the same thing; talking, laughing or evidently cowering, as
I found out when I read Christopher’s third-grade year-end “About Me” book. His
greatest joy? Easy...soccer. His greatest fear? The character
Jack-of-all-trades from the show I made him sit through every Saturday night at
9pm. I thought staying up with me and Annie was a special treat; turns out I
was terrifying him every week. Single parenting decisions: sometimes you nail
them, sometimes they go tragically off-the-mark.
Once I had been in a couple of productions, Annie started
doing some of the kid’s shows. This meant Christopher had to come along to
either hang out backstage or venture onstage as the “Boy” or some other animal
or fairy. (God. This poor
kid...what did I do to him??) Mostly,
it was a fun family activity and the only terrifying part was whether or not
I’d remember my lines when the curtain went up. The great thing was--I usually
did. I might have flubbed a line or two here and there, but as I was told by a
friend one night and never forgot--the audience doesn’t have the script. They
don’t know when I’ve dropped a line. And it was community theater, so many of the residents of the
community in which I lived were present at our shows. They were too nice to be too
critical of my performances . . . you never know when a single mother will
burst into tears.
As time went by, the kids got older and soccer and other divergent
activities took precedence and I stopped auditioning. It was fine; although I
was a drama major in college, I hadn’t really set my sights on a career as a
thespian. The dose of acting I got during those wonderful days of rehearsals
and productions, Coward and Shakespeare, donated props and expertly created
costumes was enough to tide me over. Forever, if you’d asked me then. But
apparently, only until now.
Despite the fact that I can barely remember why I open the
refrigerator door, each Tuesday and Thursday night until the middle of
December, I am going to leave my home and travel to the next town over to
rehearse lines for an hour or two. The show is Love,
Loss and What I Wore, written by Nora Ephron and Delia Ephron, and based
on the book by Ilene
Beckerman. If you look closely, you can see why I made the insane decision
to put myself in what will undoubtedly be at best, a hoot and at worst, a spectacle
along the lines of Sally Field’s Oscar acceptance speech. First of all, I don’t
have to remember the lines! It’s a staged reading . . . no memorization! Next,
it’s by Nora Ephron. She has been an inspiration for my own work for many, many
years. When I auditioned, I read the essay, “I Hate My Purse” which I guess was
included in the script because Nora wrote it and she could put anything in it
she wanted. I wished very hard to get that role; but I didn’t. Acting in a play by Nora Ephron would be
like living a little bit inside her brain and I wanted that experience. And
then, if those two little omens weren’t enough, it was being produced in
Woodbury, the former small town where I began my illustrious acting career over
20 years ago. How could I say no? Or rather, I hoped I could say yes, providing
they offered me a part.
They did. I have a short monologue all my own and I am part
of several ensemble pieces; all about women, clothing, humor, love and loss.
Being in a play is a little like riding a bike in that once you try it after a
long period of time, it feels very familiar. You just have to work out the
rusty spots. I am a little nervous, too. I’ve been doing readings and talks
since my book has been out, so one might imagine I have some confidence about
getting up in front of hundreds of people and hope words come out of my mouth
and not, say, spit. I’ll have the script--magnified--in front of me, but I’ll
still need my glasses to read it. But I get to read it. It is feeling like an
opportunity to try something out, or maybe revisit something I once loved, but
had to push aside for other obligations and responsibilities. It is truly both
an exciting and terrifying ambition and I can’t wait for opening night.
I hope I remember to show up.
