Break A Leg

B

I’ve never auditioned for anything.

Not only have I never auditioned for anything, the possibility of auditioning has never been on my radar.

Fine, I might have cast myself in a few movies, but who hasn’t?

I am clueless about so much. I live in a Michelle bubble and apparently, my bubble is hard to penetrate.

I had never heard of the show Listen To Your Mother until a few months ago. I watched some of the performances from different cities on YouTube and they were funny and poignant.

I sent an essay in for the Indianapolis show and then promptly forgot about it.

HAHAFUCKINGHAHA. That’s a lie. I didn’t forget. 

Okay, maybe I didn’t forget about it, but I didn’t think I’d get an audition, either.

You guys, I got an audition.

Maybe nerves will set in next Saturday when I have the audition. So far, anxiety over this doesn’t exist. This is odd, because anxiety usually plays a huge part in any situation where I might suddenly fall into awkward behavior. So you know, all situations. I’ve never auditioned for anything, so I couldn’t possibly know for sure, I have to imagine that it’s a high risk event for awkward behavior.

I guess my anxiety isn’t bubbling up because I’m cool with getting rejected for this audition. I’m thrilled they asked me to come in and read my essay. It’s not like I don’t want to be selected, but I’m not on pins and needles over it. Just being asked has been enough for me.

So this is where you tell me to ‘break a leg’ right?

I could google this, but that would involve opening another tab and it’s really early, but the reason we tell performers to break a leg is because it’s unlucky to wish them luck, right? So, to ward off bad luck, you wish something sucky on them.

Why breaking a leg, though?

Couldn’t we be more creative when it comes to wishing something shitty on a person?

“Have bad sex for a year!”

“Lose your eye sight!”

“Get a foreclosure notice!”

“Spontaneously combust!”

“Become a compulsive gambler!”

“Get a head cold!”

“Have an enema!”

Although, that last one doesn’t work, does it? One doesn’t ‘accidentally’ have an enema.

Husband, sitting down to read the paper: “What the….? An enema?”

Wife, calling from the other room: “Honey, can you take out the trash?”

Husband: “I can’t, I am accidentally having an enema.”

Wife, entering the room: “We need to talk. After 3 times in one week, these enemas can no longer be called an accident.”

And scene.

This time next week, Randy and I will be on our way to Indianapolis for my audition. The weather today is fucking horrible. We’re snowed in. I hope the weather next week is better. Because it would be like me to slip and fall in the parking lot.

I’d probably sprain an ankle.

 

 

 

 

 

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