Exit Stage Left

I’m a Leo, which is zodiac for “look at me!”

This means I spent a considerable percentage of my childhood staring melodramatically out the window on short car trips, imagining there was a camera crew on the other side capturing my emotions to a soundtrack of light piano music.

Every activity was a chance for me to practice method acting.

I produced countless productions, both (loosely) scripted and improvised, with my younger siblings, cousins, friends, and neighbors. We’d host our own “Weekend Update” with nonsensical, made-up news. We’d shimmy around to a musical that we were making up on the spot. We’d stage elaborate dance performances that were centered more on the costuming than the choreography.

There’s a video somewhere that I refuse to watch of my sister and I performing a parody rendition of Sonny and Cher’s “I’ve Got You Boob,” in which we stuffed rolled up socks into our shirts and just sang the chorus of the song over and over again.
(It was recorded by my parents - not in a pervy way, but in an “I’m going to use this to embarrass you into having a really good personality later in life” kind of way.)

It’s called range, honey; and if “all the world’s a stage,” I was performing in my own variety show for an audience of anyone who would pay attention to me.

The Lemur

The one that got away.

As a kid, I was part of an after-school program called Odyssey of the Mind, which is a creative problem-solving competition in which teams develop a creative product (usually a skit) against themed challenges.

In my first year, I lost the leading part of Lemur to the only boy on the team, who “auditioned” for the part by flinging himself repeatedly onto the ground. His physical comedy won over the jury of our peers and I was relegated to scriptwriter.

(He was punished accordingly. I gave the funnier lines to the girls playing the countries of Mozambique and Madagascar.)

(He also, hand to God, is in prison now.)

On competition weekend, he got hit with a case of stagefright and his delivery fell extremely short of the “throw-yourself-on-the-ground” commitment he’d auditioned with.

Miraculously, our skit was still deemed worthy enough to make it to the regional competition; meaning I got to watch him butcher my writing twice.

Four white mice

One doesn’t spend the majority of one’s childhood learning the complete lyrics and choreography for the original Broadway cast recording of Cats! and come out the other end not wanting to be a “theater kid.”

And so, I entered sixth grade with big aspirations of appearing in the middle school musical.

Unfortunately, that desire was largely overpowered by my general “please don’t look at me, it is embarrassing just to exist here” vibe. So I didn’t audition.

And even though it was impossible for me to have gotten a part, I still stood at the fringes of the crowd in the hallway waiting for the cast list to be posted outside the theater - just in case.

Rumor has it that that moment inspired Ryan Murphy to write all the sad parts of Glee season 1.

Instead, I settled for being a stagehand; still thrilled just to be behind the curtain.

I’d stay after school for the full length of every rehearsal, even though the crew was only required to stay for stage blocking. I revered the eighth grade girl playing Cinderella as if she were a celebrity. (I’m pretty sure I circled her in my yearbook, which is cool and normal, I assure you.)

By technical standards, I did accomplish my goal of debuting on-stage during the musical. As one of four stagehands playing mice, transformed into horses to pull Cinderella’s carriage to the ball. (And bless em’ - my parents paid to attend the play just to watch me stand there for 30 seconds in a plastic zebra mask from Party City that the drama teacher had spray-painted white.)

Mrs. Peterson

After watching wistfully from the wings through sixth grade, I arrived in seventh grade a little bit bolder and ready to give it my all for that year’s musical, Bye Bye Birdie.

My mom found the 1963 movie so we could study it, and I knew immediately that my dream was to play Mae Peterson, the meddlesome elderly mother of the main character.

The role of Mrs. Peterson required more comedic timing than vocal talent. She was overbearing, with a thick New York accent, and her only solo, “A Mother Doesn’t Matter Anymore,” is a ranting guilt-trip, comedically lamenting all the sacrifices she’s made for her son over the years.

I wanted to play her for laughs, and I knew that if I could read for the part they’d inevitably see my potential. All I needed to do was survive the first round of singing auditions.

Unfortunately, I am not a triple threat.
I’m not even really a double threat.
I’m just a threat. Mildly threatening.

One by one, we were called up to the front of the room to sing an excerpt of “How Lovely to Be a Woman,” originally performed by Ann-Margret in the movie.

I immediately missed my first cue.

The music director started the song over from the beginning and I squeaked into the wrong part of the song.

Of course, I’d practiced - but with the confidence of a girl singing alone in the shower instead of a girl who was absolutely bombing in front of an entire classroom full of people who had taken three years of chorus as an elective.

The director let me start over a third time, and my psyche has legitimately blocked me from remembering how it went.

All of this to say that I enjoyed Bye Bye Birdie as an audience member, trying really, really hard to stay upbeat and cool about the whole situation.

That experience was traumatizing enough to keep me from auditioning for the 8th grade musical. Instead, I focused my efforts on community theater, where I immediately lost out on a minor role in Beauty & The Beast to a girl from my school who cornered me in the bathroom to tell me she knew she’d get the part, and who has since gone on to play Armie Hammer’s sister in a movie.

(I’ve decided I would forgive her for being an absolute bitch of a 13-year-old if she would just give me some hot gossip re: his recent cannibalism allegations.)

About as far off Broadway as you can be

Now that I’m an adult, I have to save my dramatics for the workplace. (Kidding! Mostly.)

But watch out when they break out the karaoke machine on cruises or at company Christmas parties.