Mor.ti.fi.ca.tion-n
1. deep shame and humiliation
2. the death and decaying of a part of a living body
I never thought that I would be posting a blog that starts with the definition of mortification. Then again, life is full of unexpected surprises and tonight was no exception.
As I was backstage preparing for my performance of “Rodeo,” I had a strange feeling that something was a little bit off tonight. Perhaps is was the fact that I had eaten something healthy for dinner (not my usual fast food diet) or maybe that I hadn’t rehearsed the ballet I was to perform, in about a week; either way, an ominous feeling began to creep over the evening.
The stage was filled with people preparing for “Meadow” as I was in my back corner wishing good luck and going over my steps for the last ballet of the evening. It was a hurried review, one that in hindsight only skimmed the surface, but what was I to do?
It was soon time to get into costume and as I put on my fancy purple and pink cowboy uniform I felt ready to go out and show the audience my knee-weakening swagger. The curtain went up, I channeled my machismo attitude and relied on muscle memory to carry me through.
It started with an exaggerated batme. What should have been a 90-degree extension suddenly expelled itself as a chorus-girl kick escaping out of my body. Who were these demons that were attempting to escape? I couldn’t help but smirk at myself for having over-exaggerated the moves within the first few moments; perhaps my excitement had just taken a hold of me. Then things plummeted off the front of the stage into the orchestra pit….
Always considering myself a count-consistent dancer, I felt my brain melt like a pound of butter as I stood center stage. What had once been second nature to me was suddenly absent from my mind. As the boys around me stood doing the choreography I lifted up my legs proudly about 16 counts too early. Immediately I second guessed myself and place my leg down. As if I had been electrocuted by the ground, my leg again recoiled to the improper position and I stood with egg on my face as the boys around me rejoiced in their correctness. How could I have been so stupid? Hadn’t I been the one that people had been asking about the correct counts only minutes before the curtain rose? The joke was on me as I heard the rest of the cast begin to snicker behind me.
(Happy moments on the costume rack BEFORE things got sucked into the vortex of evilness.)
In case it wasn’t clear, I had my first MAJOR fuck-up tonight on stage. A new found sympathy has been discovered for those whose minds fail them from time to time. Not since I was ten, content with bowl-cut and glasses, has such a thing happened to me. At that time I had been a young boy dancing the shim-sham center stage with a group of tappers. As they began to rush, I stopped dead still center stage for about 10 counts frustrated in their stupidity. There was nothing I could do and afterwards I just broke down to my mother in frustration. Tonight, however, it was I who was basking in the stupidity. We all have our moments, I guess, but on stage with ABT blanking out will never be one of my proudest.
The support, and mockery, from the cast and the staff was enough to lift my spirits to a point where I don’t feel like it is the end of the world. People thought maybe I was just doing some ab-strengthening exercises center stage; a solid alibi. As I strolled through Times Square later tonight I thought I would do a little re-enactment of my over-excited extension from early in the piece; a moment I was willing to re-enact pictured above. The rest, however, will have to live in the memories of the proud few who witnessed it.
Fortunately, it was nothing that a little time with my sister and Scott couldn't fix.
Scott was even generous enough to demonstrate my crazy kick in the "Seattle Cafe." How we ended up there will forever be a mystery to me. My brain was obviously eaten by velociraptors tonight.
