I love charcoal gray. I bought these amazing charcoal gray trousers from Banana before I left for Syracuse and I wish I had more excuses to wear then. I bought a stand-up funnel-necked gray merino sweater, with short sleeves. It's soft and fuzzy and form-fitting and makes a lovely complement to my dove gray Kenneth Cole shoes. The really really beautiful wedges that put me well over the six foot-mark. Gray is the new black and my singer friend M told me that, while she was in Paris, she saw gray everywhere. EVERYWHERE.
Well that's where I'm at. I see gray everywhere. It's gray outside, drizzly, and makes me want to curl up in a blanket with my mug of tea *pause - that's the kettle whistling* and not move until it's absolutely positively necessary. We're talking in case of fire or typhoon here. My throat is scratchy, my eyes are puffy, I ache all over and I'm seriously contemplating a career as a Lorac rep for Sephora. This can mean only one thing: it's audition season.
I spent eight out of the last 24 hours on a bus to and from NYC. There's a newer busline, a subsidiary of Greyhound, called BOLTbus. They offer outlet plug-ins, wireless internet, and more room, for about the same price as the insane Chinatown bus where you're really not sure if you're going to get there alive. The frequency of my auditions this year dictates that I must be in and out of NYC almost every week, so the train tickets must be kept to a minimum. BOLTbus didn't suck, it was on time, and it drops off right outside Penn Station. So far, so good. I was staying with my sweet little old lady-friend on the upper east - she greeted me with chicken and matzo ball soup and cheese and crackers and chicken salad and regular salad and don't forget to save room because I have chocolate cake too. Yipes! Good thing I led with the soup, otherwise I'd be totally out of my weight watchers gourd by now. Watched the election returns, rejoiced greatly, and zonked out in preparation for my audition. Woke up early, tried to start warming up. Fixed breakfast, drank coffee, sing sing sing. Fix hair, put on makeup, sing sing sing. Humming on the bus, buzzing down the street to the audition site, where they're running ten minutes EARLY. Hug tenor friend who I haven't seen in years while flinging off coat and jeans, slip on heels, recheck lipstick, dash upstairs. Lead with Feu - this goes rather well please God don't let them pick Zerbinetta I'm just so tired still when will this madness end - okay, they picked the Queen, no problem. Sing sing sing did the f come out okay or am I just paranoid? Change clothes very quickly, bump into panel of judges on the way out of the restroom, receive very sincere congratulations on my good singing, exeunt omnes chased by a bear. Book it over to Penn Station to have a quick lunch with my friend S before I have to get back on the bus. Talk about Thanksgiving and turkey frying. Lament how we never seem to have enough time. Kiss kiss, we'll talk soon. Four hour-long bus ride back home. Grab train to other train station, arrive early and eat crap pizza with the choristers. This was the beginning of a string of bad ideas. Two hours of rehearsal involving count-singing, probably the worst rehearsal technique for teaching music that's not rhythmically complicated. Getting agitated. Set rehearsal dates for upcoming recital. Go to the bar with friends, wait for husband. Drink beer. This was yet another bad idea. Order salad with salmon. Am dissatisfied with salad. Order chocolate nachos. Hooooooo boy. We can see where this is going. Manage to get home without picking a fight with anyone, promise husband I'll come to bed soon. Watch half an episode of favorite HBO show online, about to go to sleep, will check email one more time.
And that was my last mistake of the night. Do yourselves a favor. Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Just do it. Even if you're waiting to hear from someone, just make yourself go to bed because you'll be well-rested and able to handle whatever comes your way the next morning. Genius of the hour, sitting right here in this chair, she checked her email one more time before she went to bed. And so, instead of being sound asleep at 12:45am, she was reading the rejection email from the foundation for which she sang 13 hours previous. Still exhausted from the eight hours on the bus, still edgy from the rehearsal, still feeling like boo from the chocolate nachos and the salad, dehydrated and crabby, she was reading and re-reading the rejection email that lamented the lack of funds for this year and the exceptional number of talented individuals and the wish to extend 'special congratulations' to a small group of singers, of which she was one.
It makes me want to throw up all over my aria book.
But next week I have to do it all over again. Get on the bus/train and go to a major metropolitan city and put on my dress and try to work it and sing well. And the next week. And the next week. In between those trips, I'm trying to finish my dissertation (we're in the editing phase people, the time is near) and prepare for a recital and remember the business of living. Petting the dog, cooking with my husband, sitting on the sofa together, planning for Thanksgiving dinner with our friends. Amusing myself by looking at lolcats and loldogs. Knitting gloves (despite the mockery of my friends who want to know why I'm knitting just one. smartasses. no hats for them this year) and looking at patterns for other fun winter treats that involve putting two needles together and coming out with something beautiful. Ironing.
I emailed my friend M, who I know is up because she's seven hours ahead. She's been at this a while and has managed to juggle singing and husband and puppy, so our spirits are kindred in more ways than one. Plus, she likes to knit and crochet. The best thing she said to me was,
"Throw up if you must, but my advice to you is to know that, in the end, even if they love you, their responses are only to what you do, not who you are. Keep your marriage strong, your faith strong, your love of life strong. You'll end up with the same amount of work whether you cry or are Zen about the whole thing. But the worrying will just give you a hole in your stomache."
And she's totally right. Which means that once I'm done with breakfast and watching 90210 and feel that I have sufficiently sulked and licked my "special congratulations" wound, I have to get up off the mat and walk the dog. Take those vitamins and use the neti pot and layer up for a long walk. And pull out my Turabian manual and start double-checking my footnotes, finish the first and start knitting that second glove. LIFE GOES ON. This is the mantra for the day.
One day at a time.
