Monday, February 1, 2010

studiously aloof, chapter two: not going home with him

That's right, world. I went home to my own bed and my little girl pajamas in my turret in Queens, where I belong—while the icy city quieted down and other, weaker women went home to riotous nights of passion. (The fools!)

What a weekend it turned out to be. I danced for the better part of twelve hours on Saturday, and by the time I ended up at the All-Night, my legs were quivering under my weight and I could hardly feel my feet as they grazed the floor and pushed ever behind me, backwards in heels. By 4:30 am, previously undiscovered muscles had begun to announce themselves and were aching something furious. Great night.

Sunday evening found me sampling cheese and wine with The Gentleman in Question and his (in a strange and humbling turn of events). So my weekend ended with a kiss I will not soon (but will likely spend the better part of the week trying to) forget.

Lucky for me, my cup already runneth over. The Show looms on the calendar in big, block letters. I will admit, I look forward to clearing my focus, strapping up the character shoes and inhabiting someone else for the next two weeks. Even if that someone else is a caricature of womanly neuroses a little too close for comfort. Time for the asceticism of performing. Nights blocked off like rows of reserved seating. The theatre a magnet in your life.

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