The Subtle Art Of Auditioning

I woke up today at 6:15 am. I proceeded to involuntarily watch the sun rise through my bedroom window, with my boyfriend gently slumbering away and wishing desperately that I could do the same. However, my mind had other ideas. It was going through Pie Jesu measure by measure, again and again and again (interspersed every so often with a "God, I need to go back to sleep. What time is it?") until I was sure that I was going insane. Nearly two hours later, I come up with the brilliant plan to count just like how I fall asleep every night. 1-2-3-4-zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I woke up at 11, as originally planned. I piddled around, trying to wrangle my entry-level experience into the ominous singing resume. I showered and I wondered to myself... why don't they just hold auditions in the shower. Yum. Hot water... soapy suds... lather, rinse, repeat. Guaranteed success!

Erin and I went to our massage. Oh, what wonder can't that woman work with her hands? I lie still, being rubbed this way and that, for thirty blissful minutes. The time passed too quickly and her strong hands demand a fair trade of money for services, though her mouth smiles sweetly. As I am walking to meet Kenny at the coffee shop, I find that I can't stop sweating. Not the gentle moistening of the brow that I normally get. I'm talking sweat rolling down my back in fat drops, soaking my hair, seeping through my shirt and no amount of fanning or panting is making a bit of difference.

I make it home with minimal loss of fluids, surely no more than a gallon or two. I pound out the last of that bloody resume and send Kenny off to make copies of my sheet music. At this point, I've changed into my vintage green dress, perhaps a little tight 'round the middle, but not much worse for the wear. That is, until the sweat soaked through the dress, despite the antiperspirant that I applied under my breasts and to the middle of my back in a futile attempt to stop the torrent of sweat.

So, we get back in the truck (nervous as new brides) and drive to North Austin before realizing that we've gone and left the directions at home. No need to panic, I just whipped out my Magic iPhone and Googled it. By the time that I pulled up the directions, Kenny had already found the church. Erin and I wander in, only to be met by a surprised old man. He directs us to the second floor. A small gathering of people greet us hesitantly.

I'm shown into the audition room and I nervously introduce myself. Smiles all around. I give my sheet music to the pianist and shuffle my way to the front. She begins, much faster than I had practiced and I stumble to catch up. My voice is shrill and breathy and my shoulders begin to shake violently. I glance at the dirctor, whose face is distoted in a grimace of pain, and I blank. I know this song, I know I do. I don't need sheet music. Suddenly, it isn't there. My brain can't think of anything but the look on his face. I apologize repeatedly and get my copy of the music.

As I bent over to my purse, I hear a thundrous noise originating from the vicinity of my backside. Surely not, you say. Oh, without a doubt, I farted the longest and loudest fart of my life... in room with wonderful accoustics. I make my way up to the front of the room once more, this time, fixating my eyes on my sheet music. Regardless of the pages right under my nose, I accidently skip a verse, though everyone (including yours truly) seems more than happy to let the shrieking come to a premature end.

Red-faced and humiliated, I eye the exit as the directer politely asks me if I have any questions. I know my cue when I hear it. I excuse myself and make a beeline for the door. All-in-all, the demeaning experience only lasted five minutes.

Thank God, it's over.