Auditions are fascinating.  I have a resume of roles I've played, and a pretty decent black and white head-shot to go with it.  Nine times out of ten these are at home in some box (I have no idea which one, but I'll find them when I clean) and I have to scribble something on a piece of paper and wrack my brain for what year I did which play.  In spite of the fact that I do this quite often, you'd be amazed at how elusive those dates can be.

In any event, last night I inhaled some hummus and pita so I wouldn't starve, lovingly prepared by Himself, and I set off for another audition.  There are not all that many good roles for women "of a certain age" as the French so charmingly put it, so when one arises there is a gathering of the same talented women, eager to learn if they still have enough brain power to memorize a two hour script, and longing for that curtain call at the end of the performance.  We love one another, enjoy one another, respect one another as people and as actors, and we are delighted and distressed to find we are all up for the same part.  So we greet one another with a hug and a genuine "Wonderful to see you!" but somewhere in our head a quiet evil voice is whispering, "Oh, s#*t.  She's here.  I haven't got a prayer!" and that was the beginning of the OSC, or the "Oh, S#* Club".  I've told them all about it and they all know exactly what I mean.  We laugh about the "board meetings" we have whenever we gather. I'm the President because, hey, it was my idea.

No one wants to go first.  It's horrible to go first.  By the time you've watched three or four people read the same lines you begin to think, "I wouldn't do it that way.  I'd pause here and wait for the laugh.  I'd sit on this word and then get up and walk on that one."  We don't get to choose who goes first.  The director calls our names, one by one, and up we get, script in hand, trying to read and interact at the same time.  It's tricky.  No one knows what the director's "vision" for the part is.  Even the director doesn't really know it until s/he sees it up there on the stage.  The best actor in the world won't get cast if the director has a different image of the role.

I wasn't first.  I wasn't last.  I was somewhere in the middle.  There were a few laughs from the "audience" which didn't seem like pity, so I guess it was not my worst outing.  The director asked me to crawl across the stage on my hands and knees as if I were in pain.  "Sure.  That's why I wore a dress," I replied as I dropped to all fours and dusted the boards with my summer frock.  I got another laugh on that line.

There's another audition for the same play tonight.  I won't go. I don't want to look desperate.  And then the waiting begins.  When will I hear?  Will I hear?  Some directors only contact the people they want in the show.  That's so rude.  I always appreciate the liars who say, "We ADORED your reading, but we've decided to go in a slightly different direction. But we hope to work with you again!"  It's just the elongated version of , "No" but it is easier on the ego.  Not getting a part means a day or two of doubting myself.  I usually vow to lose twenty pounds, partly because I assume that was the problem, and partly because I am reminded of what it's like to see pictures of a production when I don't bother to lose twenty pounds.  Not good for the ego.  I hate cameras.

So soon I may be in a cranky mood, but it will only last a day or two.  Or, there is always the possibility that I'll get the part, and then I'll have something to keep me busy two nights a week for the next couple of months.  It's like summer camp for grownups.  Well, we're not really grownups.  We're actors. 

If I retire (and God knows I'm getting old enough) this will be the reason.  Getting up at 5:15 in the morning is not a problem for me.  The mornings have always been my favorite time of day.  Having a reason to get dressed and out of the house is a good and healthy thing.  My job (now that I have kissed my "career" goodbye) is cute.  There is little pressure, and when I close the door at the end of the day I don't give it another thought until I turn on the lights in the morning.  But the commute is going to kill me.
The ride in is usually tolerable.  Three days a week Himself and I ride together.  We are far enough down the line so we generally get a seat (critical!) and he likes to do the daily crossword puzzle together which could one day mean the end of a marriage which has lasted 26 years so far, but whatever.  Then we read our books.  Two days a week I commute on my own as Himself leaves our home at around 6:00 AM and RUNS to work.  It's ten miles and he's become a bit of a legend in the office because of it.  In the winter he is lit up like a Christmas tree, because it's dark out there, but from now until sometime in October he leaves in the light, heads to his sports club and takes a shower and dons the outfit he has left in the locker the day before.  

And then there's the commute home.  I have been known to travel 6 stations in the wrong direction in order to get a seat for the ride home. Getting a seat makes a world of difference.  Eye contact must be avoided at all costs.  If I can dive into a mystery or some other  amusing book I become oblivious to the world around me.  But when I look around it strikes me how like a bad Sci-Fi movie the world has become.  Everyone is plugged in.  Babies in strollers are playing with Mommy's iPad.  Music is leaking out of earphones, which makes me wonder what it sounds like from the inside, and my personal favorite is the loud one-sided inane telephone call which could REALLY have waited.    Most of the time, however, I do manage a seat.  The gray hair works for me.  And my look of death, which, if I do say so myself, I have pretty much perfected.  If someone offers me a a seat I never say no.  That behavior is to be encouraged.  Himself sometimes gets cranky because if there is one seat I always get it. Well, I'm older.  And I'm short.  And I'm fast as greased lightning and weave my way like a football player through the crowd until I score!

But the thrill of the chase is losing its edge.  The broken air conditioning, the times when I'm stuck nose to nose (or nose to armpit in my case), the language, the complete lack of civility is just getting to me.  Not that I'm about to drive into town every day, which would present its own problems in the areas of civility and expense.  Maybe I'm just turning into that cranky old lady who gets into fights in the T parking lots with people who insist on going against the arrows in the rows (God, I hate that!).  Maybe it's time for me to sit on my front porch and yell at the people who insist on blowing through that damn "STOP" sign.  Nah.  Not yet.  But I can smell it from here.