ETA: Surprisingly, it went well. I definitely had a different health reviewer than last year and this one managed to use the word "underweight" only once and more in passing than in judgment. It's something.
Tomorrow is going to be a bit of a challenge for me. I'm going in for a "Health Risk Assessment Follow-up" that the city I work for is running.
It's not a stretch for me to say that someone, probably a woman who is overweight, will sit down with me to tell me in the most condescending of polite tones that really, I should put on some weight.
If I advise this person that I'm under the direct supervision of two medical professionals, neither of whom are concerned about my weight, I'll be referred to a piece of paper that shows BMI and how I don't meet it--even though BMI was never intended to be used that way.
If I try to politely point out that I have a high metabolism and the braces are the only thing keeping me from going nose-first into a Snickers bar every afternoon around 3, I'll get the "look" that implies that obviously I'm in denial about whatever eating disorder I'm assumed to have.
My nation is epidemically overweight and it's killing us. And yet, apparently not being overweight, being in that minority, is the bigger sin.
But perhaps Lisa O'Neill Harris says it better than I. (And no, I don't have a disease or medical condition, just a very happy metabolism. I'm advised that'll change in the next decade.)
Off to practice biting my tongue.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Episode 27: Old Papers
Mum sent boxes of my old papers. She'd kept a lot of my paperwork from my elementary school years; she had to with us being home schooled. There had to be proof that we were doing the work the state believed was important for our education.
There are papers from my second grade year, the one year I was in public school before middle school, handwriting samples of a barely six year old attempting to master cursive writing. It was possible, though in retrospect my manual dexterity surprises me.
I wrote constantly as a child. Obviously this has not changed as I have become an adult. My desire to illustrate my own work seems to have lessened a little.
I found the one act play from eighth grade and stories from high school; there's a lot of wishful thinking contained in those words and it's pretty apparent who I had a crush on despite the restrictions on my dating life.
Last night, I reread one of my comp books from college. Just flipping through it, it's mostly drafts of papers and some class notes. Then, when you actually start examining pages, most of the left hand pages are journal entries.
The raw emotions of a child, teenager and eventually young adult, poured out without reservation, are daunting, even knowing they were my own emotions. There was a lot of anger and a lot of loneliness. There was a lot of confusion; I was constantly changing directions, changing focus, changing people. Friendships appear and disappear, names are mentioned once--and at least in one example I've had to ask someone else about a real name, because even within the journal entry itself I acknowledge I'm not sure.
The honesty with which I wrote always strikes me. No matter how much I attempt to hide things from others and myself, no matter the sugar coating, there's usually at least one sentence in a journal entry from the appropriate time that clearly states what was actually going on, rather that what I was pretending was happening or would happen. I'll admit it on paper, turn the page, and keep attempting to maintain whatever status quo I sought.
There are periods where I don't write, usually short ones. Sometimes the writing has moved to different places, like my blogs, but the majority of it is longhand somewhere. The most notable absence of journaling was during a period I was in a relationship. At the beginning of the relationship I wrote--mostly worrying about how I wasn't writing about the relationship, the guy, and my feelings. Should have been the first clue to run, right? I wrote tomes about my crushes, the boys I dated for a second, friends, dates. There are bad poems all over the place while I was trying to break down my thoughts to manageable bite sizes. My best friend and my first love both take up page after page of text, despite that I never truly dated either one. My boyfriend of two years? No poems, few pages, and ultimately, fewer memories.
Re-reading brings the past sharply back into focus, triggering other memories, other days. It also brings into clear focus that at the end of my junior year of college, I was only nineteen. Less than a decade later I'm amazed at what has changed and what is still exactly the same.
I haven't gone through all of my journals, doing so would take a lot longer than a weekends read. Many of the blank books are still half to three quarters blank. I've considered cutting out the pages and putting them in page holders and trying to create some kind of progressive timeline, something orderly. But as I'm the only one allowed back through those pages, I'm not sure it's worth it. Still, the amount of stuff that's gone into the shredder and needs to make it's way to a recycling bin is impressive. So perhaps I'll revisit more. After my head stops spinning from all the memories.
There are papers from my second grade year, the one year I was in public school before middle school, handwriting samples of a barely six year old attempting to master cursive writing. It was possible, though in retrospect my manual dexterity surprises me.
I wrote constantly as a child. Obviously this has not changed as I have become an adult. My desire to illustrate my own work seems to have lessened a little.
I found the one act play from eighth grade and stories from high school; there's a lot of wishful thinking contained in those words and it's pretty apparent who I had a crush on despite the restrictions on my dating life.
Last night, I reread one of my comp books from college. Just flipping through it, it's mostly drafts of papers and some class notes. Then, when you actually start examining pages, most of the left hand pages are journal entries.
The raw emotions of a child, teenager and eventually young adult, poured out without reservation, are daunting, even knowing they were my own emotions. There was a lot of anger and a lot of loneliness. There was a lot of confusion; I was constantly changing directions, changing focus, changing people. Friendships appear and disappear, names are mentioned once--and at least in one example I've had to ask someone else about a real name, because even within the journal entry itself I acknowledge I'm not sure.
The honesty with which I wrote always strikes me. No matter how much I attempt to hide things from others and myself, no matter the sugar coating, there's usually at least one sentence in a journal entry from the appropriate time that clearly states what was actually going on, rather that what I was pretending was happening or would happen. I'll admit it on paper, turn the page, and keep attempting to maintain whatever status quo I sought.
There are periods where I don't write, usually short ones. Sometimes the writing has moved to different places, like my blogs, but the majority of it is longhand somewhere. The most notable absence of journaling was during a period I was in a relationship. At the beginning of the relationship I wrote--mostly worrying about how I wasn't writing about the relationship, the guy, and my feelings. Should have been the first clue to run, right? I wrote tomes about my crushes, the boys I dated for a second, friends, dates. There are bad poems all over the place while I was trying to break down my thoughts to manageable bite sizes. My best friend and my first love both take up page after page of text, despite that I never truly dated either one. My boyfriend of two years? No poems, few pages, and ultimately, fewer memories.
Re-reading brings the past sharply back into focus, triggering other memories, other days. It also brings into clear focus that at the end of my junior year of college, I was only nineteen. Less than a decade later I'm amazed at what has changed and what is still exactly the same.
I haven't gone through all of my journals, doing so would take a lot longer than a weekends read. Many of the blank books are still half to three quarters blank. I've considered cutting out the pages and putting them in page holders and trying to create some kind of progressive timeline, something orderly. But as I'm the only one allowed back through those pages, I'm not sure it's worth it. Still, the amount of stuff that's gone into the shredder and needs to make it's way to a recycling bin is impressive. So perhaps I'll revisit more. After my head stops spinning from all the memories.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Episode 26: Being "Theater"
A friend was inquiring about my interest in doing some project management work for her.
"I need someone like you, you've stage managed."
"Technically, yes, but I'm primarily a costumer."
"Same thing, you're theater."
In a conversation with one of my guys during a marathon night out.
"You're theater, you don't count."
An unusual bond forms when people work together in theater and performing arts. There is an intense relationship formed and held, sometimes for only a few weeks, sometimes much longer. You grow used to friends coming and going, people you shared celebrations, tragedy, and chaos with fading away after only a short tenure, remembered but passing. And there are a select few you hold onto with both hands.
There is a shared work flow and a creative team that, ultimately, we hope the audience never really has to think about. Carpenters, directors, coaches, voice teachers, lighting, sound, stage hands, costumers, dressers, stage managers, props people, house managers, ushers--all coordinating, preparing, and working towards the deadline of the curtain rising each night and ultimately the curtain falling. And yes, there are the performers too. I've worked in both roles, though primarily backstage outside of singing.
In performing arts, as in all fields, I've met the prima donnas barely willing to acknowledge me: the girl mending wardrobe, loading the trucks, working as an usher, or just singing second soprano. But more often I've met good people, dedicated to their craft, ready to share the work, a snack, a hug, and stories. And at the end of the night, there's a round of goodnights, sometimes hugs and drinks, and good times.
There's a physical comfort among most of the "theater" people I've known and worked with. In high school we gave a set number of hugs each night, one of the seniors calling out the number at the end of rehearsal. With a small cast, this could mean one embraced nearly everyone before heading home. In college, we sat on each other's laps, gave backrubs, squashed into cars to head out for the post-rehearsal or show meal or drink. At a performance Mum attended a few years ago, I forewarned that at least one actor would squash me into an off-the-floor-full-body-post- show hug and, no, nothing was going on--he's just a theater friend.
Knowing someone has worked in a theater, though, particularly backstage or with a healthy respect and awareness of backstage, is informative. Often, they've had to manage people and projects, usually simultaneously. They've put in long hours getting ready for a single show, performance, and moment. They've worked with diverse teams, pulling together even when they don't like their fellow performers. For me, it meant that I was identified by a former coworker as competent and perfect to assist on a project because I was theater. Though the two don't always go together--competency and theater, but it provides a common background between people who may be otherwise unrelated.
They know the rush of getting ready, wondering if you'll make the deadline, learn it all, make it all, find all the things you need. They've stood in utter darkness and had someone suddenly appear at their shoulder, scaring the living daylights out of them even as it's just someone waiting for their cue, they've stuffed people into strange but necessary clothes, swallowed the laughter of a joke during a performance, rolled out of the building late, waited for the cue to begin, and finished a night with the knowledge of having brought words and music to life.
Though the memories and abilties remain, I miss being theater. Thankfully, the friendships also remain. Being able to prepare together, perform together and work together in an effort to create art lays a sturdy foundation. Such it is that it doesn't surprise me that the majority of my closest friends from the last dozen years are ones I would describe as being "theater."
"I need someone like you, you've stage managed."
"Technically, yes, but I'm primarily a costumer."
"Same thing, you're theater."
In a conversation with one of my guys during a marathon night out.
"You're theater, you don't count."
An unusual bond forms when people work together in theater and performing arts. There is an intense relationship formed and held, sometimes for only a few weeks, sometimes much longer. You grow used to friends coming and going, people you shared celebrations, tragedy, and chaos with fading away after only a short tenure, remembered but passing. And there are a select few you hold onto with both hands.
There is a shared work flow and a creative team that, ultimately, we hope the audience never really has to think about. Carpenters, directors, coaches, voice teachers, lighting, sound, stage hands, costumers, dressers, stage managers, props people, house managers, ushers--all coordinating, preparing, and working towards the deadline of the curtain rising each night and ultimately the curtain falling. And yes, there are the performers too. I've worked in both roles, though primarily backstage outside of singing.
In performing arts, as in all fields, I've met the prima donnas barely willing to acknowledge me: the girl mending wardrobe, loading the trucks, working as an usher, or just singing second soprano. But more often I've met good people, dedicated to their craft, ready to share the work, a snack, a hug, and stories. And at the end of the night, there's a round of goodnights, sometimes hugs and drinks, and good times.
There's a physical comfort among most of the "theater" people I've known and worked with. In high school we gave a set number of hugs each night, one of the seniors calling out the number at the end of rehearsal. With a small cast, this could mean one embraced nearly everyone before heading home. In college, we sat on each other's laps, gave backrubs, squashed into cars to head out for the post-rehearsal or show meal or drink. At a performance Mum attended a few years ago, I forewarned that at least one actor would squash me into an off-the-floor-full-body-post- show hug and, no, nothing was going on--he's just a theater friend.
Knowing someone has worked in a theater, though, particularly backstage or with a healthy respect and awareness of backstage, is informative. Often, they've had to manage people and projects, usually simultaneously. They've put in long hours getting ready for a single show, performance, and moment. They've worked with diverse teams, pulling together even when they don't like their fellow performers. For me, it meant that I was identified by a former coworker as competent and perfect to assist on a project because I was theater. Though the two don't always go together--competency and theater, but it provides a common background between people who may be otherwise unrelated.
They know the rush of getting ready, wondering if you'll make the deadline, learn it all, make it all, find all the things you need. They've stood in utter darkness and had someone suddenly appear at their shoulder, scaring the living daylights out of them even as it's just someone waiting for their cue, they've stuffed people into strange but necessary clothes, swallowed the laughter of a joke during a performance, rolled out of the building late, waited for the cue to begin, and finished a night with the knowledge of having brought words and music to life.
Though the memories and abilties remain, I miss being theater. Thankfully, the friendships also remain. Being able to prepare together, perform together and work together in an effort to create art lays a sturdy foundation. Such it is that it doesn't surprise me that the majority of my closest friends from the last dozen years are ones I would describe as being "theater."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)