Real love requires 2" heels, at least.

That Ken Ludwig. Man.

He can’t write a play without causing serious damage to the ankles. (That’s what my feet are saying, anyway. Ah, well, there’s a price to be paid for anything, huh?)

I’m sorry if this comes across, at first, like a shameless plug for the current production of Leading Ladies that I’m in – it wouldn’t matter anyway, if it did; we’re practically sold out for the rest of this run. We’ve only got one more week, and then…it’s curtains.

Literally.

But, out of the goodness of my heart, and since I’m a Christian man (from the waist up, anyway), I’ll gladly give you the web address for Starkville Community Theatre. You can click on the link and read about the show, if nothing else. Here: the Playhouse on Main. You’re going to wish you could have seen it.

I’ll miss it, myself, to tell you the truth, but I won’t act like it.

No, it’ll be good to have my feet in a solid pair of loafers, again. (Never thought I’d ever say that). But, those heels are starting to chafe and my precious ankles, delicate though sturdy, are still in recovery, I should remind you. Well, my right ankle is. It never fully healed from the disastrous (highly embarrassing, AND alcohol-free, thank you very much) spill I took in my own front yard, as I catapulted myself over the vinca, back in May during the run of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged.

Yes, I’m referring to the infamous fall that nearly broke Amanda at the waist, with her key in hand and at the front door. She never saw me coming. Yes, dear friends, I mean the veritable somersault that “took out” the middle curlicues on the ironwork that holds up the porch awning, and was flung across the bistro table where a large glass vase sat, waiting all its life for this one moment to face death.

That one, yeah. I’m sure you remember.

The ankle still hurts, and now here I am, in another Ludwig “farce?”, running up and down stairs in 2″ heels. Black, fake leather, with an angry Mary Jane strap bridging the curve of bone across the top of my foot.

In short, my feet are killing me, each night.

(And secretly, I’m kind of OK with it). I said, kind of.

This is, I think, the very definition of true love. Because true love allows you to hate it. And I hate Theatre; therefore, I must love it. Don’t expect to understand that. It’s not a total hate; it’s a sectioned-off hate, and ironically, has less to do with Theatre, sometimes, than it does with Theatre’s Other Lovers. Jealousy is pumped through the air vents at our theatre. Trust me.

And calm down, calm down…I’m not about to bore you with some lengthy diatribe on the virtues of Theatre as the most genuine art form, or a life saver…both of which I consider it to be.  

To be honest, I was going to initially write a love letter, here, to Theatre; then, I stopped and thought about it…long and hard. It might be better if I wrote it a Dear John letter, instead.

Much like true love, I stay in this constant state of stress about Theatre. I obsess over the come-and-go effect it has on me. We fight almost everyday.

I want to stay; I want to leave; you get the kids; I’ll take the costumes. You know how it goes…that kind of argument.

You wouldn’t believe the way Theatre treats me, either. It’s a textbook example of the classic abusive relationship. And we’re going on twenty years, this year. Can you believe that?  We first met in 1989, during The Sound of Music.

(No one could hear my cries over the chorus, though…plus, Maria was a strong soprano. I ended up chiding myself for being paranoid).

Now, twenty years later, I’m still in this relationship. (And before you ask, No. I haven’t been faithful. Hopefully, I get some credit for coming back, as often as I have).

Because I always come back.

No matter what happens, regardless of what I’ve been put through, or what names I’ve been called: the evil swamp monster; that fat, dying Southern aristocrat; a transsexual psychic; the manipulative bank clerk; a dancing bear; a blanket-hugging 5-year-old; a singing priest; that British fop; that drag queen swindler…it doesn’t matter: I still come back.

I still find myself, many a night, knocking on the door to be let in. To be loved again. To get one more chance.

That’s why my feet hurt: from real love. And this time, to prove how much love I have, how real it is…I’ve got to wear 2″ heels and five different dresses, every night, on the stage (I must say, the Carmen-Miranda-esque dress is quite a character, in and of itself). And I do all of this, proudly.

Because this is the penance I’ve sworn to, so that Theatre knows I “really mean it this time.”

But…just like last time, I’m already sick of it. I’m desperate to finish planning my escape. I’m eagerly trying to bide my time until this Saturday night, when I can smile a lot and bat my eyes during one last curtain call (Theatre loves when I do this; I’ve fetching lashes, I know…I can’t help that), and then we’ll hug, like last time, we’ll bow a few times to each other, randomly throw well-meant kisses at each other (but not really to each other), and then, I’ll walk out the door, full of promises, as usual.

God only knows how long I’ll hold out. My record is two months. I’m going to try to make it to Christ’s birthday, this time.

If I can. I always mean to stay away for longer than I ever do. That’s what any victim does. Intentions, though, can’t resist a curtain call anymore than they can take off 2″ heels merely by pretending them away.

This time, however, (this coming next time, I should say), I expect will be different.

Because it isn’t just me that’s changing, now. Theatre is, too. Lately, I’ve been having this sinking feeling that I don’t really know Theatre, anymore. The magic’s fading, for me. The fun isn’t there, hanging around. I think that’s one reason I kept coming back, even with all the “name-calling.” Because even on the worst of days, we still had great fun, Me & Theatre. We were a package deal, a power couple. I expected problems to come from that; they usually do.

But, they were our problems, when they came, Mine & Theatre’s. Not someone else’s. (That’s what seems to be changing. Sigh).

Whatever it is, I’m not sure…but Something’s not the same, I know because I smell it; it has a smell to it. You don’t run around on a stage in five different dresses, every night for two weeks, and not come across a wide range of smells. Febreze usually works, but not this time.

This time, it’s a smell I can’t quite fully recognize. And, I don’t like a smell I can’t recognize.

No sir, I do not.

I do not like a smell I cannot recognize.

Related Posts:

• That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.
• Because hands can do everything but lie.
• “That’s not lying,” he said, “That’s good manners.”
• The monsters in my mouth.
• And, for the record, I really like my shower curtain.

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