Last night was opening night. And it was a blast.
We'd already had four preview performances (less money for tickets, more wigs likely to fall off and mics to make funny noises and lyrics to be botched and set pieces to fall over) and two dress rehearsals without an audience (half-dressed, occasionally, and breaking into laughter in the middle of scenes, and calling out "I'm sorry my fault!" from backstage when something's forgotten).
But last night was opening night! The real for-reals one.
It was so fun. I mean, performing the show is always fun, and our last preview audience really spoiled us by thinking we were UPROARIOUSLY funny while last night's just chuckled appreciatively. But hey, I'll take an appreciative chuckle. Who wouldn't take an appreciative chuckle? Last night was fun and grueling, but not completely grueling, because changing over and over and over and over and over again, and running up stairs, and down stairs, and moving setpieces, and stretching wigs over my giant cranium--all of these things have all been getting easier. And funner. It's like doing two hours of pretty regular cardio every single day, and I love it. I even have two of the six-pack. Please bow to me, for I have two of the six pack. I could basically be a bodybuilder at this point.
There's a particularly dancy dance number in the second act, involving lots of dancing, and I have named it a Notorious Danger Dance Zone of Dancing Death, not because it is particularly hard, but because it has ripped my dress, killed several bracelets, given me a gash down the front of my tummy, blistered my feet bloody, and detached my wig from my head numerous times. And those were just the preview performances.
Last night I basically superglued my wig to my head, made sure all my parts were lodged correctly inside my dress, checked for snags in the fabric of my dress, adjusted my bracelets carefully, and tried to convince myself that I'm not clumsy. I was going to conquer this dance number. I was going to be the queen of dancing.
So I was dancing onstage, as I regularly do in this number, with the seven other members of our ensemble. Andrea was in her pink dress as usual, and Janell in the ever-present eggplant dress, Ruthie in green and me in blue, and Carson and Michael were sailors in their cute little sailor hats and John 1 and John 2 both had their shirts unbuttoned.
We were past the most Danger Zone-ish part of the dance, almost to the end, and I was triumphant in no screw-ups.
Trying to balance myself on my teetery shoes with a continually-trying-to-take-over-my-life long black wig on my head, as usual, I did a couple of really quick little turns towards the north side of the theater, as usual, spinning around in front of the audience, and as I lost my balance and had no time to think, I definitely plopped my booty down onto a dad guy sitting in the front row. Just, you know. Landed right on him. Hello audience man. Here's some feathers from my feather headdress hair-poof to land in your mouth. Plegh plegh plegh. Hello your ten-year-old daughter sitting next to you. Hi. I'm just made up like a drag queen and sitting on your dad's lap. Luckily, there was just as little time to think as there was to stay on his lap, so I hopped right back out of my lap-sit and continued to dance ever-so-gracefully away from my new friend as Michael and I grabbed each other's arms and burst into giggles, he in his sailor hat and I in my Jasmine wig.
Got it? Jasmine wig sailor hat sit-on-a-dad get back up run away to the stage.
So I will continue to conquer this dance. But I won't be surprised if next time, I somehow am launched into the third or fourth row headfirst. Or if I spear someone in the eye with my heel, or something.
You ever sit on somebody on accident? Or hold the wrong mom's hand in the grocery store? It was like that.