Whenever my mom (known to many of you as "Miss Jean") wishes to express her disdain or displeasure at the poor manners/behavior/choices or sartorial catastrophes of others, she is known to say, "Well isn't that special." She says it with this beatific smile on her face that in no way belies what she's actually thinking, thus preserving the Miss Jean mystique.
It takes me by surprise when anyone else says this, because I immediately think of my mother and wonder what they're trying to pull. Day before yesterday, I was on a shopping mission for an audition dress because a minor miracle occurred: my agent was able to get me a last-minute audition with an opera company between my concert performances and, for the first time ever, I had packed for this gig without bringing along a day dress OR my audition binder. Oy gevalt.
So I'm trying on what seems like dress #5999 (but was probably only dress #9) on this search-and-destroy shopping venture and the saleslady (who, I swear, needed to adjust her dosage because she was waaaaaaaaay too enthusiastic about taffeta) is asking my friend Allison about why we're hunting for this dress, what's the occasion, blah blah, and Allison says, "she has an opera audition tomorrow," and miss perky 2010 says "well isn't that SPECIAL!!! How very exciting for you!!!!!" at which point in time I nodded and shut the dressing room door. Exhale.
I'm not good at explaining this part. When I tell people what I do, they get this slightly confused and very enthusiastic look on their faces. Like when I'm talking to a parent of a student and tell him that I need to plan lessons because I'm going to be out of town doing auditions for ten days in Europe. He immediately says, "well isn't that exciting! You get to see all those exotic places!" I really have to resist the urge to say, "It would be exciting, were I going on vacation. Which I'm not. And if I were sight-seeing, which I'm not. I'm auditioning. It's work. It's a work trip. With work." As soon as someone gets even the slightest whiff that this crazy job might actually be a job and not sunshine and rainbows with singing, they look like I've stepped on their very small dog. There are obvious exceptions, and sometimes I just lie and say I'm a music teacher. The glamorous part is what happens on the stage: the pretty dresses, the lovely music, the flowers and applause. But everything leading up to that is straight up hard. For example: I got this amazing last-minute gig filling in with a great symphony and a conductor I adore. I got this amazing last-minute gig approximately eight days before the performance, on a piece I'd never done, and the rehearsal started two days after Easter. This meant I spent most of holy week carrying around a score and studying it like mad, trying to get every bit of detail off the page and into my brain, instead of listening to any of the sermons at the six services I did between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday. It was also my birthday weekend. I had 15 minutes with a pianist before we jumped into orchestra rehearsal. The alto soloist was coming straight from the airport so the first time I sang our duets was with her, in front of the orchestra and the conductor, no piano time, no nothing. The next day was orchestra rehearsal 2. I'm trying to swallow my normal fears and just focus on the singing, but there's also this issue of foreign taxes afoot. The symphony isn't allowed to help me, so they point me in the right direction. I become best friends with the concierge at the hotel, who lets me print out copies of all my paperwork and fax it to the tax agency. First they say they have it and will process it within 30 days. Then they say they have to have it 30 days before I get paid, or they take 15% off the top and maybe I'll get it back at tax time next year. WHOA. Maybe? Excuse me? Then I spend the afternoon on the phone with a tax accountant/lawyer person who's a friend of the symphony, he sends me more forms to fill out (print, fill out, fax again, more quality time with the concierge) and then I wait, with the world's worst headache from staring at screens and small print, and oh did I mention this is performance night? Four ibuprofen later, we get through the performance reasonably well, I know it will be better on night 2 because I'll be more relaxed, then the post-show dinner but can I stay late and eat the chocolate mousse? No, because I have an audition the next morning. MORNING. Get up, run my small mileage, shower and make self ready for audition, attempt to look elegant, taxi to audition, wait wait wait sing Fire then Queen then lunch with the pianist, not sure what that was about but fine. And then I spend most of the afternoon in my jammies watching 30 Rock because I'm so incredibly tired.
I love my job. I get to sit in front of an orchestra and listen to some of the most glorious music ever written. And nobody does D major like Bach, nobody. I relish every single moment during which I am so privileged to be a part of this wonderful music-making. I try to soak it in and stay in the moment as long as I can because it's the payoff from all of the practicing packing faxing flying eating food with plastic silverware and spending time away from my husband and dog and house. It's good stuff, and I wouldn't trade it, not for any other job. But it itches my skin like bad starched lace collars when people presume that it's all fun and jet-setting. Sometimes I get to see old friends along the way and sometimes I get to see cool places. But I miss big family anniversary parties and Christmas Eve with my grandmother and usually my birthday and my husband's birthday are spent away from home, celebrating with friends there if I'm really lucky.
I live a pretty great life. I'm healthy, strong, and good at what I do. My husband is supportive like all get-out, my dog is well-socialized and lets me know how happy he is to see my home. And when I'm listening to the Sanctus in the B minor mass, I swear I feel a wave of something very holy and otherworldly come over me and all the hair on my arms stands up and my breath catches in my throat and I'm so SO glad I don't have to sing right after that because I'm overwhelmed. But given the choice between soaking in the hot tub at the hotel in Toronto alone or sitting on the sofa at home watching West Wing with the husby and the dog, we know which one I'd pick.
So with all that off my chest, I'm going to enjoy the rest of this gorgeous afternoon reading a book. I hope this day finds you happy or on the way there, and with the ability to count your blessings. Back to the list.
1. for the runners who wave and smile when they pass me on the sidewalk
2. for the friends in cities who make time to have a meal
3. for baklava from the deli down the road
4. for the beautiful sunshine that showed up today
5. for Bach, still kicking ass centuries after his death
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