Give it up for the girls

The last weekend in March, my courage, nerves, and minimal dancing skills were put to the test at two performances with the ensemble put together by my teacher, the lovely and talented Artemis. The first was at a theatre on Capitol Hill, a hefty but lovely walk for me from Union Station. The Atlas Theatre is a gorgeous facility, although in a bit of a dicey up-and-coming neighborhood. (Perhaps more "coming" than "up.") This place is the real thing, and I must say, even though I've performed in the real thing before, it was intimidating. It's a small house but with top-notch lighting and sound equipment, complete with snotty technicians. (Okay, only one was snotty, but he made an impression.) But the really scary thing about this place was that the lights were so bright that when they went to black for us to go onstage and line up for our performance, it was the blackest black I've ever seen. Blacker than your-brother-trapped-your-head-under-the-covers black. Blacker than caught out in the woods on a moonless night black. Black. It was everything I could do not to panic. Would I have enough time to adjust to whatever light there was so that I would find my spot and not look like an idiot dancing off by myself somewhere?

Amazingly enough, I was able to find my spot. The lights came up, and of course, they were blindingly bright. My eyes adjusted to the light; I smiled seraphically at K. and the Three Graces as they did their solos, and then, apparently, the smiling stopped. I had work to do. All day long, all the possible negative outcomes of this performance had been going through my brain on an endless video loop. My biggest fear was that I would not be able to get up from the floor, where I was smiling and watching, without bobbling. I bobbled during tech. It was a legitimate fear.

I got up cleanly and did my little dance with no mistakes that I was aware of, but also with very little joy. The stage was huge, and the margin of error so small. I was never so happy as when the lights died again and I was able somehow to find my way through the pitch black of the wings to the stage door and freedom.

Despite my jangled nerves, the day still wound up being one of those red-letter days for the sistahood. We were there roughly eight hours, most of which was spent not rehearsing but dressing, making up each other's faces, and telling each other about our lives. I have to tell you, this is a great bunch of girls. As our teacher said, "Not a bitch in the bunch." I haven't had much girl time lately, and I tell you, I was savoring it. There's a bond you forge when a) you're bored and b) you're doing something terrifying, that no one can easily break. Sort of a foxhole thing, I think.

The next day, however, we reprised our performance, although slightly altered because we were missing two out of our troupe. Instead of a scary, professional theatre, this was at one of my favorite restaurants ever, Mem Sahib in Rockville. This is where Jeff and Fiona and I go to celebrate special occasions. The Indian food is excellent, and they have belly dancing and play Bollywood movies! You eat family style, and the process takes more than three hours. Our teacher had an informal recital there for her private students, and she let our little group perform there as well.

This was a blast. We ate the Indian buffet, saw some great dancing, ululated our appreciation for the performers, improvised our performance, and had the time of our lives. I got the performance rush that I was expecting the night before but sadly didn't get. I smiled like an idiot for the crowd (the place was packed), and I know I was looser and danced better. That, along with hanging with the girls and getting to know them, made all the weeks of preparation, the hellish rehearsal hours, and the scary stage all worth it. I might actually do this again.

To Artie's Hussies, if any of you catch this, you totally cook.