So. Yesterday I had the last non-dress rehearsal of drama.
We’re putting on this goofy little free play called A Hysterical History of the Trojan War. I know, I know, we’re only 14, you gotta excuse an amature drama group sometimes. It gives you extra karma points!
I managed to the get the role of Hera in the production, which is rather miraculous considering that there were maybe 11-12 roles. There are approximately 30 people in my drama club.So, therefore, I wasn’t surprised when they invented 8 new roles for those who didn’t make the larger parts. But then those 8 supposedly small roles became bigger...and bigger...and bigger...until Hera was overshadowed by handmaidens and fangirls. Apparently, the people who got stuck with the leftover roles wanted more and more lines, and the group leaders were willing to give them a couple here, a couple there, until it evolved into 2 extra scenes.
I am the mama god. You don’t overshadow the mama god.
Actually, I don’t really care. And when I say I don’t care, I genuinely don’t care. I’ve had roles where I had 3 lines for one out of 4 performances and I was a little unhappy, but if I had quit the director would have probably had to choose someone who couldn’t tell stage right from stage left, much less how to project across a gymnasium. I’ve had roles where I have had no lines at all, roles where I was offstage, roles where I was in the audience and oddly enough I was content with them all.
But there’s a difference between happy and content. Content means that you’re okay. Happy means you’re great.
I love the role of Hera to death. D’you know why?
I get to be a GIRL.
An honest-to-gawd, boob-growing, baby-producing, drooling-over-boys, babysitter’s-handbook-reading GIRL.
This never ceases to amaze me. For all the time that I have been onstage, I have been a guy. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with playing boys; it’s just not comfortable after a while. I’ve even dressed as a guy for Halloween, and several friends thought for a few seconds I was a certain hockey-playing jackass from school who came to stalk them.
...no idea how I should react to that, even now. Thanks Chris*, for instilling doubt of my feminine-ness.
I should have worn a TARDIS dress layered with a purple shirt with a trench coat over it. Fandom turducken!
Anyway. I’m used to wearing boy’s clothing. But I feel more at home in a bun and a choir robe with a sash than in pantaloons tactfully stuffed with tissue paper down there (it’s happened.) Besides, now I get to act like a goddess who might smite you any second now. And, because Hera's the fertility goddess, watch your ass if you want to have children.
Just saying.
Okay, I should go now before I start talking about Glee. Or Doctor Who. Or Supernatural. Or Destiel, by extension.
*I use male names for all of my friends in the blog. It’s a handy code.
