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It's like being a nun. And, never having gotten myself to a nunnery, I'm guessing.
These days I go to rehearsal. I then complain about my sore feet [my sore back, my sore arms] to anybody around. I go to bed and don't get any sleep. I give up and answer some of my e-mail. That takes some time as my e-mails are notoriously long. I make myself something to eat - I've mastered the art of making miso [and yes, from scratch]. I try and write. I more often than not fail. Then the whole dawn thing happens and suddenly it's time to go back to rehearsal. There I get yelled at - a lot. Somehow all the yelling makes the extravagant compliments bestowed, when I do get it right, even more enjoyable. I know, who would have thought? Masochism usually doesn't work for me. I've been questioning myself - why go through the blisters, the sweat, the pain - when dancing is not my life? I don't live to perform. It was pure chance I ended up getting into this [and the long black hair?]. I'm thinking it's the drama. Olé!
So I rehearse. Over and over again. Between that and the lack of any sleep at all I'm slowly, but surely my friends, going bonkers. I know the whining is getting old and there are so many times you nice people can tell me how sorry you are I can't sleep. Trust me, I'm boring myself here. It's frelling Saturday night and instead of being out there where the lights shine and the people laugh, I'm in here too exhausted to do anything but limp my way across the keyboard.
Thank the deities for phones, e-mails, LJ and... what's that thing called? Ah! IMs. It helps to have some semblance of a social life - even if these days it's a virtual one.
Rinse. Repeat. Tomorrow there's another rehearsal.
These days I go to rehearsal. I then complain about my sore feet [my sore back, my sore arms] to anybody around. I go to bed and don't get any sleep. I give up and answer some of my e-mail. That takes some time as my e-mails are notoriously long. I make myself something to eat - I've mastered the art of making miso [and yes, from scratch]. I try and write. I more often than not fail. Then the whole dawn thing happens and suddenly it's time to go back to rehearsal. There I get yelled at - a lot. Somehow all the yelling makes the extravagant compliments bestowed, when I do get it right, even more enjoyable. I know, who would have thought? Masochism usually doesn't work for me. I've been questioning myself - why go through the blisters, the sweat, the pain - when dancing is not my life? I don't live to perform. It was pure chance I ended up getting into this [and the long black hair?]. I'm thinking it's the drama. Olé!
So I rehearse. Over and over again. Between that and the lack of any sleep at all I'm slowly, but surely my friends, going bonkers. I know the whining is getting old and there are so many times you nice people can tell me how sorry you are I can't sleep. Trust me, I'm boring myself here. It's frelling Saturday night and instead of being out there where the lights shine and the people laugh, I'm in here too exhausted to do anything but limp my way across the keyboard.
Thank the deities for phones, e-mails, LJ and... what's that thing called? Ah! IMs. It helps to have some semblance of a social life - even if these days it's a virtual one.
Rinse. Repeat. Tomorrow there's another rehearsal.
