Actor. Writer. Lover. Brunette.
The Valley of the Sun.
Hair in my face
This post was originally going to be titled “The Anton Chekhov Years” because I was going to talk about both Anton Chekhov and the musical “The Last Five Years” and their connection to my current life, but I ended up having way more to say about Chekhov than I thought I would. So, here we go with a little bit of theatre talk, because I figure you guys are getting pretty tired of me complaining about my pummeled relationship, but I have just a little more to do.
Since this blog as a whole is indeed about the fact that I dropped out of college to be an actor, (It’s official now! The last section of grades just came in. 4.0, bitches.) I decided that I would wrap what’s happening to me now in some explanation about why I left the University.
So, as I may or may not have touched upon in previous blogs, I was/ may attempt again/ ugh! going to school to get my BFA in Musical Theatre. Because that’s definitely what you get a degree in if you want to make money, but I was deliriously happy for a while, so I let this choice slide. Now, getting a degree in acting means that I took a lot of classes where people taught me how to, well, act. I was taught breathing, and the proper way to say words to get over my weird A impediment (which is really just a Boston accent, which is strange because I’ve never even been to Boston… Huh.) I was taught how to stand, how to sit, how to enter a room, you name it. Learning how to act also required me to learn how to behave in certain styles of theatre: Shakespeare, Comedy of Manners, Farce, and, of course, Chekhov.
Anton Chekhov was not a guy I really dealt with a lot before going to the University. I mean, I was a musical theatre major for goodness sakes. All I really needed to know how to do was sing and smile. Few people really cared about my actual acting skills, but it really came first in my nature so I read up on the guy. I think the best way I ever heard him described was by my vocal teacher (the one who taunted my impediment.) She told us, “If you’re weeping hysterically and laughing hysterically at the same time you’re doing it right.”
I thought this was interesting. Laughing and crying was something I had done before, but I just couldn’t place it in these shows. I mean, it was just so… Average. And that was the point, I know. That was the magic of Chekhov I learned. It was just so everyday, and so casual, and so hidden that it was absolutely a time bomb waiting to explode and that’s what made it so interesting to watch. (No seriously, our acting exercises were sitting and playing cards, or chess, or alphabetizing cue cards. I literally sat in front of the class for twenty minutes one time alphabetizing cue cards and getting angrier by the second about my life and my choices and what I was doing. He said it was some of the best acting he’d seen.)
So really, to study Chekhov was to study true human behavior and it was really fascinating. The thing that wasn’t fascinating was the fact that the department was really falling apart when I entered it. I had heard it from other people, but before I went there I was really a shining example of seeing the good in everyone so I just ignored this and assumed people were overreacting. They weren’t. (When I returned to my mentor job after leaving the university people literally cheered. They cheered in the hallways about the fact I’d seen the light. It was pretty bad.)
Part of this interesting dynamic came in the form of my acting teacher, who was actually the reason I came to this university. I loved him. I still do, but in a much different way now. He’s probably one of the more brilliant actors I’ve ever seen in my life, but my acting class just drove me crazy.
Our Shakespeare unit included him being gone the whole time because he had an acting gig. Which was awesome! But we were teaching ourselves how to act Shakespeare out of a book and it wasn’t working. And he commented on that when he returned to watch our final scenes. (More on that later…)
Our other units were a combination of yelling, that disappointed face that parents give their kids, and balancing books on our heads. The Chekhov unit, however, took the cake.
Shit happened. I know that. I don’t know what, but stuff went down and it wasn’t good. That happens. It’s life. I was at the point where I was deciding whether I was going to drop out of school, people were collapsing at the gym from being told by instructors that they were too fat to act, it was finally coming out that instructors slept with students. It’s life. Life is really, really shitty sometimes.
So please keep that in mind, just for a moment, while I try to recreate a picture of my Chekhov unit for you:
The lights are at half in the studio theatre we used. My instructor enters, his usual boyish gait is gone. He approaches the podium and delicately puts his papers on it. He pauses for a moment, staring off into space at something only he could see, covering his mouth, tears welling up in his eyes. We all watch, silent. In this class we could never be sure what was an acting moment or not. After a while he lazily grabs a chair and pulls it to the center of the acting space into a pool of light and slumps into it, his head in his hands. And he begins to weep. And I realize that this is not an acting moment. I want so desperately to break the silence and remind everyone that I’m going into monstrous debt to take this class, but I figure that might be inappropriate. And then finally I realize why the universe held my tongue as he whispers hoarsely:
“My life is just… so Chekhovian.”
I called my mother as soon as I got out of class that day to see if someone who didn’t directly witness this phenomenon would believe me when I told the story. That also became our new catch phrase, because it was awesome how ironic it was because to be Chekhovian meant to be distressingly average, and thus not really worth weeping over. I laughed. Maybe it was because I was exhausted and completely absorbed in myself and my life at the time (what’s changed?) so I was delirious with Chekhov.
When it came time to do our final, I had decided to drop out of school, announced it to the department, suffered the repercussions and I was starting to gain weight. Before this, I had been scoffed at during scenes, had him shake his head and sigh, checking his watch, during the last public performance there (that I won an award for, from his previous mentor. SUCK. IT.) and I had him tell me, in front of the class (I shouldn’t care, but I do) that my Shakespearean acting was worse than watching a bad after school special, and that I wasn’t smart enough for Comedy of Manners. Seriously.
The acting world is hard, but this school was just regoddamndiculous.
And so I just did it. I got up to do my scene and I don’t really remember much except looking into the audience and just hating him. Just hating everything about him, and every awful thing he had ever said to me, and every eye roll, and every sigh, and every tear. And I started to laugh. I was laughing at the fact that I was able to leave, and I never had to see him again if I didn’t want to, and I was going to go and break this awful habit of being a Chorus Line song (“Nothing.” Look it up. I’ll blog about it later.) and find someone who actually wanted to teach me and I would be an actor because that’s what I was supposed to be. Already giddy and high on my final scenework, I was trucking through this piece talking about love and reading and other joys in life, and I finally looked at my partner.
This is a very bad actor thing to do, not looking at your partner, I mean. I fully own up to the fact that I was being a super shitty actor at this point in my career, just ticking off assignments until I would walk out those doors for the last time. But I looked at her, and I just stared right into her eyes for a minute and suddenly it hit me. I was walking away from a very bad place that was doing awful things for me, but I was also walking away from so much more. My room, my bed, my friends, the best friends I had made in my lifetime, and I knew that things would change because people never stay in touch when they say they will. I was walking away from good food, and dinner parties and PBR while playing poker. I was walking away from freezing couches and rarely waking up in my own bed. I was leaving funny stories and temperature so cold that my eyes froze together when I blinked. I was leaving a horrible place, but it was all going to be gone when I left. All of it.
And I started to cry.
I started weeping so hard I could barely get my lines out, but somehow they weren’t lost in the strange sea of subtext in my head. I was going on auto-pilot now. Because this was real life. This was Chekhov.
And I started to laugh again.
Because I felt so silly and there was just something that tickled me so much about the fact that I finally understood everything that I had been taught that semester. I knew exactly what my vocal teacher had been talking about and I really understood Chekhov. And I liked it. This little musical theatre major really liked it a lot more than jazz squares.
As I transitioned into my monologue about being alone forever and losing my man to a strange turn of events I couldn’t pull myself together. Finally after a semester of running laps around door frames trying to get to that exhausted vulnerable point I was there. And it felt amazing.
I got done, and I did that little head nod that means “Thank You” that they hated there, but I was literally out of words. I was full to the brim with emotion, but I couldn’t articulate any of it, so I just sat down, drying my eyes on my hideous, tie-dye rehearsal skirt.
So, what does this have to do with my real life now?
Uh, hello? Chekhov is life. Where have you been for the last two pages??
Kidding. I’m kidding.
But really, what is all this nonsense I’m spouting when I’ve been spending most of my writing time talking about being brokenhearted?
It’s actually only kind of what you think.
First of all, I’m going to make a very, very long story short because I’ve already written about ten pseudo- blogs that I’ll never post, speaking in capitals and saying all those things I wish I’d been brave enough or clear-headed enough to say in real life, and you people don’t need any of that. SO instead, I’ll paraphrase by saying:
Learn from my fail. I think they may have designed that website especially for me. So, in today’s lesson, I’ll tell you to never, never contact your ex. Even if you think it’ll be okay. Even if you want to be civil. Even if people tell you to. Especially if people tell you not to. And if you do decide to not learn from my fail, try to place a sign on your forehead or flying across the sky talking about how you don’t hate them, of course you don’t, but you really never want to see or speak to them again Ever. Ever again. Because it’ll be too painful and things will be said that are awful and horrible and complete game changers and you will be left right at square one, every wound reopened, completely sickened and dry heaving with emotion, blubbering in your bed again. That line, “I never meant to hurt you” has become a movie classic because the actual subtext is, “except I want to do everything in my power to make you feel pain, because I’m just like that.” That’s acting right there.
Learn from my fail.
So as I was curled up in my bed, weeping hysterically, again, because all of my years of being crazy judgmental of girls like me taught me nothing apparently, I began to think about all the things that had been happening lately, things that are far more devastating and tragic than any break up, far more hurtful than anything he could ever say to me, and far too personal to ever write some trivial blog about and I stepped outside myself for a moment and I thought, (no really, wait for it…) “My life is so…” And then I started to laugh, “…Chekhovian.” And I realized how stupid I was being. All that time I’d spent judging my acting teacher, when really he had it right all along.
Am I still upset? You bet your ass I am, and my informal poll of co-workers who wanted to know why I had Fight Club face again told me that I shouldn’t feel bad about that. Emotions are important, no mater how much I hate that, and I was/ am justified in mine.
So really, the weird theatrical limbo I’m in right now isn’t all for naught. Apparently I’m still practicing my acting all the time without even knowing it. Am I going to stop crying anytime soon? Lord, I hope so. My eyes are starting to get irritated, but I’m not really holding my breath. There are a lot of things that need to get cried out still.
Next, I’ll get to my strange talk about “The Last Five Years” which is a brilliant Jason Robert Brown musical that I definitely dream of being in one day. If you want to do a little homework before I post again you can listen to the song “Nobody Needs to Know” that has made me cry every time since the first day I heard it, because it‘s one of my favorites. I’ll numb the spoiler alert a little by breaking it to you that Kathy, who he sings about, is the person he “loves” and is committed to, and the woman he’s in bed with and singing “take me inside you” to is most definitely not Kathy.
Maybe the song writes the blog for me.
Oh man, I need to start listening to music that isn’t Katy Perry’s “Part of Me” again.
There’s some good stuff out there. Amongst all the tragedy.
I’ve started this blog a thousand times. And I’ve ended it ten thousand different ways. And none of it makes sense still. I also finally wrote more than two lines on Sunday, and I’ve been sitting on it ever since, wondering if I ever wanted to do anything with it.
I thought about asking him to never talk about this online. I can’t ask him to not say things when he’s with his friends, when his roommate starts asking questions, when he’s drinking at a bar. You know things, good and bad, are going to happen in all of those situations, but online, things seem different.
There is such a persona to the online world. I have a façade I need to keep up as the self-deprecating, humor writer and he has the façade of the flippant rockstar to maintain.
And I most certainly did not want his persona talking about my persona.
But I could never request that because I knew I’d end up here eventually.
Even if I can’t even pretend to be eloquent.
I made a lot of notes in my internet hiatus.
I wrote things in notebooks as I thought of them. (How can something be mutual if I’m so miserable?)
I doodled thoughts on napkins when I was alone. (Does every person in this damn town drive a red trailblazer??)
I kept a list of things in my iphone. (To Do: Bahh! Oh what does it matter… (Okay, not really. My iphone notes were not related.))
I wrote a lot of papers for my creative writing class. I’m surprised she didn’t get tired of my face- planting.
(Instead she gave me an A and told me (not sarcastically!) to look into getting published! </selfpromotion>)
I tried to expand on the nagging thought I’d had about fighting.
[Tuesday Edit: Remove tearful rant about “I’ll fight for this.”]
I cried for 7 days straight.
It was nice. I needed that.
And then I deleted everything having to do with Batman Live.
(Which totally would have been awesome. Google it.)
I blocked his persona from all my feeds so I wouldn’t have to read comments. Or a lack thereof.
(No one ever likes to see how jubilant their exes are without them.)
And I threw away the after dinner mints from our first date that had been sitting in the lamp next to my bed.
And I realized that was it.
My relationship, as short and wonderful as it was, boiled down to after dinner mints.
There were no pictures to take off cork boards.
No love notes to burn.
Not even sappy posts on my Facebook timeline
Or pictures to delete or untag in online albums.
It was after dinner mints.
So instead of a long, rambling, weepy blog (because I‘m trying to edit that shit out) about the fact that two weeks later I still hate the fact I’m broken up, I’m going to show you (an edited version of…) all the notes I’ve kept during the last two weeks. Conversations with people, Facebook posts I would have posted, commentary on the strange world I live in.
It’s not going to change the fact that I miss him, but nothing is.
And that’s what I needed two weeks to figure out.
It’s a very cleansing thing.
:A Textual Montage: Appropriately Set to the Tune of Katy Perry’s Part of Me:
Facebook Update: Dear 92.9 The Boss, Yes. Thank you. I get it. I’m single. You don’t need to play Katy Perry’s Part of Me every 15 minutes. Thanks.
The Tuesday after “That Night”, I was stretching out in the gym with a guy I’d gotten to know this semester through ab workouts and Hip Hop dance. Part of Me played on the radio and he made a comment about my new single status, which was strange because we weren’t friends on Facebook, nor had I mentioned it. (Apparently I’m an open book.) He tried to make me feel better by doing a sexy floor dance to the song.
But then Gotye’s Somebody I Used to Know came on:
“Wow. Today just really isn’t your day on the radio.”
FB Update: Dear 92.9 The Boss, Please never stop playing Katy Perry’s Part of Me.
I spent a lot of time in the gym the last two weeks (which you can’t tell, because even though I quit drinking, I also took up eating… a lot.) and thus spent a lot of time with gym guys, who are often entertaining, but rarely comforting. One decided to make me feel “better” by talking to me about how guys, as they get older, start to realize that they’re not going to be in this kind of shape forever, so they need to release that energy. And they’d much prefer to release that energy on someone much younger with a “fiiiiine body.”
They then gave me that “Giirl, you’d better live on that stair- climber” look.
(Because apparently gym guys have saucy voices/ subtext.)
FBU: I downloaded Katy Perry’s Part of Me to my Spotify playlist so I can listen to it while I run…
FBU: I love running!
FBU: I hate running…
Napkin Note: LOL! Sadness….
(I can almost guarantee that this was followed by a couple hours of Jenna Marbles videos.)
At the Gym:
Him: If a guy still has “She said Yes!” pictures on his Facebook you were obviously never his main priority.
Me: Wait. You’re friends with him on Facebook??
Him: I’m just sayin’.
Me: I’m going to go home and check my privacy settings…
Him: You might want to do that.
This was followed by a long conversation about the inappropriate level of FaceStalking someone you don’t know. Especially if that someone is my ex boyfriend. Or me. So stop it. (All of you!)
John Mayer’s Dreaming With a Broken Heart. On Repeat. That is all.
FBU: Dear Avocado, Thank you for being easy to peel and delicious, thus making my day better.
As you can tell, I took up cooking and cleaning along with my long bouts of exercise to help cope. My mom doesn’t know whether to be excited the house is clean, or worried because I’ve stopped sleeping.
Napkin Note: Is it strange that I feel the most sad at night?
Commentary from Annoying Josh, who will be known as AJ from here on out:
AJ: Stop thinking about it. You need to move on.
Me: I’m trying. It’s hard.
AJ: Stop dwelling on it. Get a routine. The more you think about it or the emotions it makes you feel, the longer and more annoying it will be.
Me: It sounds so easy coming from you.
AJ: It’s not hard.
Me: …I hate you. I’m going for a run.
Needless to say, that was the last time I spoke to AJ. He stopped meeting eyes with me in the hallways, stopped talking to me in class (much to the joy of our instructors), stopped texting me. Stopped everything.
I feel that this proves my Liz/ Floyd/ 30 Rock theory. Ask me about that later.
FBU: This was an unfortunate time to quite drinking…
FBU: Off to Plato’s. Let’s hope they don’t actually make me pick out an outfit.
This was an interesting part of my last two weeks. I’ve been trying to find a job to carry me through my loans coming due in November and me moving out of my mom’s house hopefully sometime before I hit 30, and so I applied at Plato’s Closet, thinking I’d love to actually be fashionable for once and have an excuse to not mope in my sweatpants all day. After three different interviews with them, I finally got a call that went to voice mail that sounded happy and possibly job-y. And I called back… And I called back again. And they didn’t respond to any of my three messages. Which just further cemented my feeling of being ‘alone in the universe’ which brings us to…!
FBU: Musicals. I’ve officially belted every musical I know. Why don’t I feel better? Back to Katy Perry.
FBU: Dear Taylor Swift, Please stop writing songs about me.
“Story of Us has been added to your Workout! playlist.”
Gym Guys: Seriously. The ONLY thing playing at the gym today is breakup songs. The guy I work out with can’t stop laughing.
He’s officially stopped working out because he’s laughing so hard.
FBU: Camel spiders. Not exactly the best thing to be writing about before going to bed…
I was definitely writing a story containing references to camel spiders for my creative non-fiction class. It also included commentary on my neighbors and chupacabras. It was with sharing this story with my class that I learned that dolphins rape human beings, frogs gang- rape each other until they die, and angler fish actually absorb each other in order to reproduce. How am I going to live without academia?
FB Picture Update (Had I been posting at that time): Looks whose got a Farrah doo…
It was my cat. She wishes I’d get a boyfriend again so I’d stop doing our hair and making her dance with me. Yup. I’m a cat lady now. It’s official. It happened a lot faster than I thought it might…
FBU: Sweet mother of God! In my time as an alcoholic I’d forgotten how good Sleepytime tea is!
Gym Guys: I was asked for my number by three different guys in one day at the gym (only one being a guy I actually worked out with regularly.) Either I’m way hotter than I think when I’m wearing sweatpants and no makeup or I’ve definitely been underestimating the power of pheromones.
“But you held your pride like you should’ve held meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” *sadnessandtears!* -Me as Taylor Swift
Gym Guys: You can’t be in love with someone who doesn’t know anything about you. Or you him.
Me: Why can’t you just let me mope…
FBU: I almost got undressed by a rubber chicken today. I guess I’ve still got it.
FBU: I made grilled cheese for the first time today. Yes. For the first time in 22 years. Judge away. It was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted. This was probably because I used a Paula Deen amount of butter…
See?? What did I say about my new cooking habit??
FBU: Kristen Chenoweth. Kristen. Chenoweth. Kris. Ten. Cheno. Weth.
She’s going to be in Denver… And I’m going to be chaperoning an 8th grade dance.
Why does Jesus hate me?
Napkin Note: Everyone in this town drives a red Trailblazer. Everyone.
I auditioned for the Denver Center Theatre Company this last weekend. It was crazy nerve-wracking, and yet so laid back and pleasant. It reminded me how much I just love to act. It’s like my acting coach always said, “This may be the last time you ever perform. Make the most of it.”
FBU: Why does The Curtis always try to catch on fire when we stay here? People are going to get suspicious…
Seriously!! The last two times we’ve stayed there (The hotel directly across from DCPA. My favorite by far.) there has been a weird fire incident… I’m beginning to wonder.
FBU: Started listening to all the music from my childhood… Bad idea. Backstreet Boys… Why? Just why? I love you.
They say that it takes half the time of how long your relationship was to get over it. I hope that isn’t true because I desperately don’t want to feel like this for almost two months…
Napkin Note: I can officially dance to “Single Ladies” again. I suddenly regret never learning this dance.
-You know what? You’re not exactly a role model when it comes to relationships.
-Okay, maybe not. But that’s because I have a relationship with my job. I love my job. And when I find the guy I like more than my job I’ll know I’ve found the one. Now it’s officially a toss up between Emma Stone and Kristen Bell (Quote from When in Rome. No shame!) as to who will play me in a movie of my life.
Gym Guys: Now I just have to get in shape enough that casting directors don’t laugh me out of their offices when I suggest this.
Literally seconds after I changed my relationship status on Facebook to “Single” and before I started to cry (which was right away, making this even more impressive) I got a text message from a friend of mine from the University that simply said “Tell me.” It was then that I realized that even though I feel so alone sometimes, I never really am. And that really meant more than anything else these past two weeks.
Now school is over, the gym guys are just occasional text messages, AJ is still non-entity, and I’m left to my laptop, trying to figure out how to sneak into the library to check out books (Success!) and my Shakespeare troupe. (Thank goodness.) My university and high school friends are still checking in on me periodically, and I’m up to running five miles a day. (Don’t cheer yet. I’m still a pudge. Remember that avocado? And that grilled cheese? Yeah…)
There is no moral to this blog, or some sort of quirky message I wanted to deliver.
It’s just a collection of thought, notes, napkins, and gym guys.
That’s what I really needed. And that’s what really happened.
So now I can write about other things, right??
It’s like a dark shadow has been removed from my dashboard.
To the blog I promised about my new lifestyle (that apparently isn’t doing anything for my sweet, svelte bod.) and definitely a piece about the return of my Twelfth Night dream and why my other blog is called Green and Yellow Melancholy.
It’s just a deep breath and one day at a time, right?
Me: I’m going to log off before I spend twelve hours watching dogs dance to the Harry Potter theme song.
Mom: Good idea. Who would have thought ten years ago that you’d be spending your time watching dogs dance. “What happened when you turned twenty-one?”
Me: I became even more lame than before…
Perhaps Poe Ballantine walked into my life at just the right moment.
After reading the hilarious account of how he lost his virginity he chuckled sadly and said, ‘You absolutely have to concentrate on the humor in life. Because it’s not funny at all. It’s actually really tragic.’