And so the summer season is closed, all of the detritus of production — sets, props, costumes, electrics — struck, and I would like nothing more than to sit here and with a stare as blank as the repainted walls and floors of the theater. With an almost comical predictability, I’d been feeling a little off by the time I closed my own show on Saturday night and had that sense of foreboding during the closing party on Sunday night, where I forewent getting ritually smashed by choosing instead to binge eat on two cupcakes, probably half a bag of potato chips and an unquantifiable amount of tortilla and lavash chips that served as vehicles for guacamole, spinach dip, salsa and Trader Joe’s five-layer dip on their journey into my mouth. Because let’s face it, I have alcohol around all the time, but I don’t really keep snacks in the house, especially not carbs. So that night? Yeah, stuffing my face. And the others didn’t need my help in demolishing the rather sizable amount of alcohol, so let ’em have it.
I was also probably just not feeling the urge because my body knew it was coming down with something. I began feeling a bit under yesterday afternoon during strike, with that stinging feeling creeping into the sinuses and a general weakness, and then I just crashed when I got home at the end of the day. Shuffled around the apartment for a few hours and had my ass in bed a bit after ten… and slept for eleven hours. It was one of those sleeps where you dream about waking up only you’re so tired that you physically can’t open your eyes. I actually didn’t feel so bad when I woke up this morning and texted my technical director that I was sick, but after she told me to stay home from strike, the wooziness began to set in. Thankfully, I haven’t been feeling too miserable, but my head has been floating around with the Curiosity rover somewhere on Mars. I did go in for the post-mortem at work this afternoon, but all I’ve accomplished since getting home is watching Beyoncé and Rihanna music vidoes. Which is worthy in its own right, but not what I’d been hoping to get done. Hopefully, I’ll be able to be more productive in the next couple days, when I have a sizable amount of thesis reading to get done.
Thinking about it, the oncoming change of the seasons probably helped push along this sickness. The nights have started to take on that deliciously refreshing autumnal coolness, but changes in temperature always can wreak such havoc on the body. Admittedly, some of that might have been self-inflicted. I’d scored a Groupon for a four-person pass to a local year-round ice skating rink, so a crew of us went on an outing on Friday.
It was a huge amount of fun. I took figure skating lessons as a child, and though I’d switched to dance by the time that I reached junior high and have never been able to keep it up regularly since then, I can still keep myself upright passably well and enjoy it a great deal, not the least because it’s a highly physical activity where I can actually not overheat.
I am, however, out of practice to the point of not being able to do any “tricks” — spins, footwork, jumps. At least, not without a good hour of ice mostly to myself, where I can feel free to fall on my ass as much as necessary. For one thing, it’s about the safety of others, as a public skating session like the one we attended on Friday often felt like a game of reverse Frogger, with you as the motor vehicle and the swarms of small children as the frogs that you needed to somehow avoid turning into roadkill. It simply takes a lot of focus, skill and energy to keep track of oneself and all others when all others aren’t keeping track of either.
But also, something that those little frogs seemed to have that I’ve come to lack is a complete and utter fear of falling. It is true that my body isn’t quite so cavalier in its recovery from gravity as it used to be. That doesn’t let me off the hook for my attitude, though. As I said in only the paragraph above this, if you gave me an hour when no one was looking, I’d fall on my ass the entire time, to hell with my ability to walk the next day. What I’ve always lacked, and do so now more than ever, is the ability not to give a fuck about falling in front of others. Because those kids? Could not have given less of a fuck. And I think that’s just something that I need to remember — that sometimes, the only person of note who actually gives a fuck about your ass hitting the ice is yourself. Sometimes, staying upright out of fear is the greatest thing holding you back.
Anyhow, that’s all that my brain can summon for today. I keep spacing out and clicking on more music videos. So I might as well go the easy route and dish on some things I recently threw money at.
First up is Helen Chen’s Asian Kitchen Perfect Rice Cooker. I had received a small rice cooker as a gift when I graduated from high school, presumably to keep myself from starving as a college student, but as I ended up on a full board plan, it just got shoved into the back of a closet back home. When I embarked on the first internship of my stage management career, however, I wouldn’t have survived without it. After a few years of dedicated service, it finally died, not owing me anything. I then bought myself a larger rice cooker, like the type you see at the end of the rows in all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets. It was awesome — until it died on me a few months later. So I bought another one. Which also died. And then another. Which also died.
At that point, I resigned myself to stove-top rice cooking, at which I was decent but not free of imperfectly cooked rice, which is kind of a terrible thing. So when I happened to spot this little item on sale at Ideeli, I figured, hey, why not.