It's go time

It's 10:45am in London.  I have to leave the house in six hours for the theatre.  Makeup starts at 6:15pm, the dresser comes at 7:20pm to lace me into my corset, and the overture begins right around 7:35pm.  The excessively polite voice will come over the PA and ask patrons to take their seats, the admins walking around backstage will give us one last wave of good luck and good show and make their way out to the house that seats over 2000 people and take their places to watch this time-tested production of Magic Flute go up.  The trap will work, the snake will be slain, the birds will fly, and I will be backstage, humming and knitting and sipping my licorice tea (new performance ritual) and trying not to get stuck going through doors.  When your costume is four times as wide as you are and your wig makes you nearly 7 feet tall, this is a feat.  

It's go time.  I've been waiting for this day, wishing it would hurry up and get here, wishing it would still be another two weeks off because I'm not ready I'm not ready of course I'm ready.

I'm ready for this.  A week ago I was on Liz's sofa coughing and feeling wretched and on the verge of tears and now, my nose is a little dry, but I slept with my eye mask on so the morning light wouldn't wake me at 7am and I am well-rested.  I am prepared.  I'm going to cook a good breakfast, make myself my morning cup of tea, and watch the series finale of West Wing season 7.  I'm going to do some stretching, take a long shower and inhale all that beautiful steam and warm up slowly.  The dress rehearsal was at 1030am, the worst possible time they could have picked for this kind of singing, and it went well.  That means that an opera starting at 730pm will be just fine.  Better than fine.  

Because it's go time.  I'm here, I'm ready, I'm singing a role I know I can sing and acting a character I know I can play.  And it's time to bring it hard.  

London Coliseum.  7:30pm.  Game on.