I entered the Rehearsal Hall with my talented cousin Jef and confidently attempted to keep up with the choreographer but ultimately I just tripped over myself (and several other people). So, I quit and sat--and probably cried. The tinny music from the ballet class next door rang in my ears.
It wasn't a big surprise not to see my name on the cast list.
In the years that followed, I was cast in many, many plays--as a Geisha, a Goblin, a Candy Child and a tree--always in a bit part that was nondescript and entirely un-special but for which my parents always bought tickets and brought flowers.
Today, at my first running club workout, I felt like I was auditioning again: I had butterflies, I was clumsy, I talked too much, too fast. This time though, I didn't trip anybody and I didn't cry. On our first lap, I bolted and willed myself not to be the tiny clumsy dancer or the slowest kid on the playground. As I watched the other runners fly past me with their long legs falling on the rubber track in graceful strides, their smooth, even breathing, like a teakettle's whistle, I fell farther and farther behind. Again. Run at your own pace, I told myself. Don't burn out on the very first day. Still, I raced against the tightness in my chest, against the tinny ballet music and the shadows of my gym teachers yelling "Faster! C'mon! faster!" as I was nearly always the last kid to finish the mile race. I don't know how fast I actually ran--split times mean nothing to me at this point--but I ran strong and finished.
And I made a friend today--several in fact. (It's the only way I know how to survive in a crowd.) I yakked and the listened; they laughed and I laughed and soon I wasn't alone on the track or in my pursuit of perfection. I'm the newest, slowest runner in a chorus but I've got six long months before the big show.
I'm always ready for the spotlight.
And I'm happy that I don't have to do this alone.
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