Going into my fifth week as a professional chorister (no, really....hold your applause.) and only just now is it registering that it's been a month since work began. In the weeks leading up to that first week and during the week itself, I believed it would be no problem to make the adjustment from Extra to Regular chorus--after all, I'd already BEEN there eight years; it would be exactly the same, only more so.....right?
Well....yes and no.
Walking into the opera house, going to the fifth floor--as comfortable as putting on an old pair of jeans (and NO, not the fancy-schmancy $300 pair that makes your butt look as if it's been molded by Michelangelo--as my John Waters-loving college friend used to say, along with the requisite eye-roll, "Puh-LEEZE, Francine!"). It's lovely to get the recognition from my colleagues that comes along with being welcomed as a fully-fledged full-timer, although I know damn well it doesn't have much to do with talent as much as sheer dumb luck that there was an opening in the mezzo section, and that the extras, as often as not, can sing circles around their regular counterparts--but that's a rant for a later screed...so, in that sense, yes, it's the same (but with a much much MUCH better paycheck, she said sweetly, with a batting of lashes and dimpled grin).
I've noticed a distinct difference in how I'm treated by the other regulars. I wish I could clearly tell you what the finer points of those differences are (and maybe someday soon, if I figure it out myself, I will), but it's more a sense, a vibe--as I mentioned to some of my friends, the picture I keep getting is of the scene from the old cult classic movie 'Freaks' where the circus freaks are gathered to welcome a new member of their tribe, banging on the table chanting "One of us...one of us...one of us!!!" I am on their level now. I haven't changed, but my status among the pack has. I am one of the freaks. (Trust me. If you knew some of these people--and if you've ever seen 'In the Shadow of the Stars', think about the ones who DIDN'T make it into the documentary....and WHY...you'll get an idea of what I mean.)
As for the difficulties....mainly it comes from the fact that my free time has become non-existent. Now, one might think that it wouldn't be an imposition to work only six hours (two three-hour rehearsals) a freaking day, right? Ah, bon. BUT. Add in travel time (and I'm one of the lucky ones...I actually live here in the city), plus the dinner break (ninety minutes--just long enough to dash home, remind the dog of who I am, scarf something resembling nourishment, and dash back for the evening's rehearsal), the occasional fitting, voice lessons, coachings, and suddenly, the afternoon and evening are no longer mine. Not that I'm bitching. Please don't misunderstand....I am still immensely grateful for the job--seriously, folks; how many people get PAID--with BENEFITS, even--to SING??--but I will readily admit I was caught off-guard by my lack of preparedness for just HOW much of a time commitment it was. Too, I am not a hard-charger by nature--I don't function well for long periods of time at top speed without down time to recharge the batteries. (Read: I. am. LAZY.) I've spent the last week and a half in panic mode, feeling quite overwhelmed. I had the day off, and spent most of it cleaning--the dust bunnies had gotten so large they'd formed their own government and were threatening coup--and it felt WONDERFUL.
It doesn't help that I'm preparing to sing on my first studio recital for my voice teacher next week--only one aria, but it's a killer ('Where Shall I Fly?' from Hercules, by Handel--whoopee, mad scene! Let the scenery-chewing commence!), plus 'Libiamo' from Triviata (yes, I MEANT to spell it that way--a glass of wine and a pair of cranky pants'll do that for a girl).
In addition to the professional fun and games, my personal life isn't going on all cylinders, either--I found out within the past two weeks that two of the most important (in terms of formative influence) women in my life are dying; my aunt Kathy from metastatized ovarian cancer, and my friend Ruth (who, along with her husband Steve, basically took over raising me after I moved out of my parents' house as I was not yet fully formed) from a combination of congestive heart failure and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease--which basically means, her heart ain't workin' right, and her lungs ain't workin' right.
....but, I've just looked out the window (conveniently ignoring, for the moment, the ruin that is my backyard--I can't call it a garden, as that would imply actual INVOLVEMENT--another project on my ever-growing list of to-dos that seem to recede further and further into the mists of time), and noticed that I've managed to catch the last tendrils of an intense pink on blue sunset, with a few seagulls silhouetted against the illumined sky...and I think, I'm sorry...what, exactly, was I bitching about, again?
More soon. Thanks for showing up.
RM
