Three

“Try a thing you haven't done three times. Once to get over the fear of doing it.  Twice to learn how to do it. And a third time to figure out whether you like it or not.” [Joyce Meyer]                                                                                                               

As much as I’m embarrassed to admit this, I feel it is vital for you to know that I am terribly, terribly afraid of most things nearly all the time. It’s a sort of pantophobia I have learned to live with.

I was – am – afraid of opinions. Compliments are also scary, so please forgive me when I sometimes act apathetic toward your kind words. 

I find most people frightening because I have such a huge admiration for them. Overly-friendly people in particular make me nervous.

One fear, though, trumps all of the others:

March 2011. The Green Room.

            The smell of must and hairspray is as familiar as my house. A mom behind me is hemming a poodle skirt, and a boy rushes by in search of mic-tape. Everyone is gossiping, encouraging, worrying, practicing, or complaining in some way. For lack of a better task, I head upstairs.

            Two lone actors await their cue behind the yellow curtain. I can see their attempts at composure from my place in the wing. The star is smoothing her skirt, praying quietly and pacing across the set. Her partner sits behind a empty desk, humming and practicing lines into an old-fashioned telephone.

            Oh, butterflies.

            I lean on my own set piece: a rolling room, complete with a projecting wooden bed and stuffed animals.

            The floral bedspread is half-folded, giving the appearance of a full mattress. A princess lamp and feathery telephone rest on a white, extremely heavy cabinet. The baby-pink walls are somewhat hidden behind a horrifying poster over the headboard.

            Clutching a plush bunny rabbit, I close my eyes.

            “Nervous?”

            I feel a weight on the other side of the bed-plank. Nodding slowly, I open my eyes just enough to see gold lamé and a grin.

            Hate. Every now and then the old feeling would resurface.

            I wait for a tease or even a laugh, but there is nothing. We sit in silence, breathing, not even really thinking. In those few beautiful minutes of peace, my anxiety quiets.

            Then, a harsh whisper echoes from across the stage.

            “Places!”

            Two scenes and a song later, I sit alone in the same position –bunny and all – waiting for my cue. I’m not much in control of my entry. Three strong guys and the set designer would push my set to its spike-marks on stage during the next scene change.

            I would sit there on the moving set. Dead weight and aware of it.

            The lights fade to black, and the segue music begins. My cue. I apologize profusely as the four men heave the massive set and me away from the wings.

            The bed-plank rattles in a nerve-wracking manner. I really don’t need my nerves wracked right now, thank you. Then –

            Crunch.

            “Expletive!”

            I am suddenly tilted backward at an unusual angle. Craning my neck, I see three very awkward faces and one very red one.

            “Expletive! Expletive!”

            He’s getting awfully worked up about this, I think.

            The lights go up. No pause. My friend starts her monologue. The monologue right before my first line. It’s amazing how life will just continue, no matter how you curse at it.

            I jump up and see the damage my dead weight (and the curtain, tangled under a wheel) caused. My guess is a supporting beam cracked under the bed-plank – it is nearly sideways, bedspread disheveled, stuffed animals scattered. The major set piece is unstable, unusable.

            Okay.

            As the bed-plank is swiftly moved off-stage, I sit with my traumatized animal friends in the place it should have been. There’s still a headboard, at least.

             I am wheeled onstage just as she finishes her monologue. The warm stage lights blind me to the audience, and I assume my primary defense mechanism:

            Pretend everything is normal.

No, 
not stage fright. Not exactly. I come from a musical family, and singing on stage is something you are trained to be okay with – like eating spinach.

I’m not really afraid of life going out of control like that, either. Things just happen sometimes. The set broke during our first show. I lost most of my props in the ordeal. I had to make up some choreography.

 It was disorienting, but I was really okay.

No, my biggest fear then is one I encounter in everyday life. With a family of seven, several friends, few best friends, millions of people living, so many hearts to save, places to travel, things to accomplish and only one life to do everything –

– my greatest fear is performing badly.