I knew making it as a dancer would be hard. I wasn’t prepared for something like this.
Okay, so I’m not the strongest person in the world. I’m petite. I have wiry strength, but don’t expect me to lift a tree trunk off a dear friend or family member if they should happen to get trapped underneath one, because that’s not a service I offer. I dance, and I do it really well because I’m light. And I act, because there are plenty of roles for very petite people, even if I’m pretending to be a tradie who knows about tool box central locking and…gas bottles. And I’m happy to be part of a major debut production, really! Maybe one day we’ll be as big as Bats, Fandom of the Oprah or that other one that came out a few years ago. The one about the witches who start their own encyclopedia that anyone can edit. Wiki, I think…argh, see how I lose my grip on even basic theatre stuff I should know!
It’s all because of last night’s rehearsal. The director had us swinging around aluminium toolboxes as part of a routine. That might have been difficult to begin with, but they insisted that we carry an entire set of tools inside because it makes things more realistic. Right, whatever, tell that to my dead arms and aching quads. All my years of dance training, and I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’m taking painkillers, but this thing is making my soul ache. Will I have to drop out? I’m just not cut out to be a workman, especially if it involve performing complex toolbox moves that make me feel like I’m going to put my back out.
No…I can’t continue like this. No way. I’m going to ask the director for another part. They won’t be happy, probably, but there are people around Melbourne who do aluminium toolboxes on a regular basis, and I am not one of them. I was born to dance.