Catherine: Were you around, dear reader, when I posted about Target? Yes? If you hated that post, don’t read on.
Two weekends ago, something bad happened. It caused me to actually PRAY TO GOD as it was transpiring, because I was in hell. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was in a show on Saturday that rehearses basically all day. That morning, I stayed in bed a little longer than I should have cuddling with my cat, and as a result had no time to make a smoothie for breakfast. Instead, I grabbed two brownies from the pan I had made the night prior (shut up.)
When I got to rehearsal, my friend had brought in two dozen donuts. Friday had been “National Donut Day,” and I hadn’t had a SINGLE donut, so I had half a donut. Feeling bold, I ate the other half shortly after. Four hours later, I had eaten three and a half donuts.
I went home for break and heated up some leftover brussel sprout pasta and yes, had some more brownies.
Following our final part of rehearsal, I went out with some castmates and ordered a veggie plate with falafel. I didn’t eat most of it (because it came literally ten minutes after everyone had already finished basically,) but I ate the falafel. I then went back to the theater to await the show, and yes, I did have another part of a donut.
Come show time, as I’m waiting backstage, my stomach starts to be all like, “HEY. HEY YOU!” And I do my best to ignore her (my stomach is a she.) She won’t shut up, so I pop two extra strength tylenol.
The show begins.
After the opening, I sit down and start to SWEAT PROFUSELY. Why? BECAUSE I NEED TO GO. I am PANICKED. The show has started, and JESUSCHRIST, I don’t think I can get on that stage because my stomach is EXPLODING and it wants me to PAY ATTENTION.
I realize that I may not make it onstage. I realize I may have to run off the stage in the middle of a scene. MotherFUCK. I have no choice but to tell my scene partner, (WHOM I HAD ONLY JUST MET – The show has a rotating cast, so I’m constantly meeting new members) that I was not feelin’ so great. She took it like a champ but was all like, “I don’t know your lines!” Fair. She didn’t. I had to impress upon her, and now the OTHER girl in the scene standing there waiting to go on in 30 seconds, that I might have to leave the scene.
I made it through the scene by the SKIN OF MY TEETH, and promptly ran backstage to the bathroom, but not before informing yet ANOTHER new person in the show that, “If I’m not back in time for this sketch, cover me??!! I will try to make it back!”
Stomach explosions ensue.
I get back backstage. There is still time before my next sketch. I promptly run to the bathroom again.
This time, I literally PRAYED in the stall. “God,” I said, “I’m SORRY that I ate 5 donuts, 4+ brownies, pasta, and a falafel. I WON’T DO IT AGAIN. I know you wanted some vegetable, I know you like nutrition, AND I’M REALLY VERY SORRY.”
I run back to the show, just in time to go onstage for a short monologue I have to do. As I step into the light, I begin to speak and then – the pain strikes – and my mind goes blank. I fear that I am about to SHIT MYSELF in front of an audience. Needless to say, I forgot my lines. If you’ve never forgotten your lines onstage you 1) must not be me and 2) know that it is NOT a good feeling. It is verrrrrry bad.
Somehow, SOMEHOW, I made up something vaguely similar to what I was supposed to say, survived the monologue, and collapsed backstage into a chair. There, I contemplated how many more relative strangers I would have to warn “I am having issues and I may have to run offstage at a moment’s notice. Nice to have metcha, by the way!”
In lieu of a picture, here is the footage of this monolgue from youtube. Now that you know what was going on on the INSIDE, watch this at the 27:37 marker and you can re-live my horrible, horrible 20 second hell:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vnNtm4sGUg
The rest of the shower was a struggle. After it was over, I left the theater with a speed my body was utterly confused by – “Girl,” it said, “How you moving so fast after you ate all that shit today, huh? Why you do this?” I screamed back at it, “YOU MADE ME DO THIS. I am TAKING YOU HOME.”
Once home, still feeling horrible but only now with a LOT of self-loathing, I ate most of the rest of the brownies and watched “Young Adult,” which is a fucking stressful ass movie.
Jana: Catherine. I know there’s no need to point out the obvious, but … why did you get that falafel? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Falafel, while a dear gift to the earth, is also straight from the devil: we know this. We’ve learned this. I just… I can’t believe you didn’t text me for my input on that. NEVER A FALAFEL BEFORE YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING. That is quite legitimately something that I live by.
That said, I’m very sorry for what you went through. And I’m sorry that you decided to watch “Young Adult” when it was all over. Would that Patton Oswald could have been there to help you out, like he helped out Charlize Theron by weirdly sleeping with her. Although I can see how, in this situation, it would have been better if he’d just been around to burp you or something.
Did We Do Something to Deserve This? 