As far as I was told, through those numerous chats with friends in high school, you know, when you’re all trying to be genius and edgy in English class: life happens in chapters. When you’ve reached the end of a chapter, the next chapter begins where the last left off, with a plethora of new experiences while still maintaining character plot lines and integrity. I had settled well into this idea when I finally discovered that my life isn’t so much a generic, run-of-the-mill storybook you can grab at Borders, but it’s like those books you ordered from that monthly book order form in 3rd grade - the ones where you read through the chapter about the girl who is solving the mystery of the lost homework and upon finishing the final line you’re given the option to hop back a few chapters if you think she will find it in the closet, or hop forward a few chapters if you think she will find it in the refrigerator. Now, I haven’t misplaced any homework, but the idea of the book’s format is really inspiring my life these days.

Four years ago, if you had told me I would spend a year of my life Irish Dancing professionally, I would have lowered the dosage on your morphine drip. I wouldn’t have believed that I could hop back to that chapter of my life, or rather 10 chapters, that I spent feverishly competing in Irish Dancing or skipping social outings because, yes, I had dance class. Yet here I am, strapping on my hardshoes everyday performing in two shows in the past year, one of which was in a state low on my list of places to visit. I lived through my Virginian summer, doing the job that instigated my unexpected return to Irish Dance, and upon arrival home to the lovely and weather-stagnant California, I found very few opportunities that didn’t involve Irish Dancing. I was told about an audition for a show that I was unsure of because of the heavy Irish Dance involvement, but was convinced with the promise of a multitude of styles that would be included. Living off of unemployment checks, I pretty much went to this audition hoping that the Irish Dancing gimmick was going to be my in and at the end of the day, I needed a job. So with my celtic cohorts at my side, we parked in the noticeably empty parking lot and walked into the ballet studio they had rented for the day. We walked into a room that had just about 10 people stretching and cautiously eyeballing the new competition. Instantly, we all knew that we were the only Irish Dancers in the room. We didn’t rest on the idea that maybe we instantly got the job by default, so we put jazz shoes on and stretched amongst ourselves. 

A plethora of accents walked in the door, all speaking a multitude of languages. Really it was just Spanish and English, but with a few crazy accents thrown in the mix it seemed like a UN convention was just next door. With that, a leggy brunette with an oddly mixed Russian/Spanish accent taught us a few combinations that were ranging from modern dance to spanish influenced, all for a panel of clearly wealthy businessmen. We really couldn’t get a read on the situation. When us Irish Dancers had a moment to do a jig or two for the ‘panel’, we would bring in our iPod, plug it in, and dance for them to anything from Riverdance tunes - as I’m not an avid collector of Irish Dance music - to Michael Jackson? Yes. The king of pop was now providing me with music for an Irish Dance audition. 

Bewildered and a little dizzy from such a fast and odd audition process, we sat in the room waiting for news. A shorter man with slicked-back gray hair that had a lively curl at the end walked to the center of the room, clearly expecting us to remain below eye-level. He stood there telling us about the job, his past experience in entertainment with Medieval Times, and how that some of the people in the room needed to lose weight if they wanted to get this job. The further he went into the talk, the more you knew about him: Shiny white teeth, a sharply tailored suit for his squatty figure, and the ability to say exactly what he was thinking. He thanked us for coming to the audition, all 10 of us, and said we will receive an email in about 3 days with news - yes or no - and as we all filed out of the room, hoping that 72 hours would feel like 5, he walked up behind me and wrapped his arm over my shoulder. “You are very, very talented. We just need to find a way to get your more hair,” he said, rubbing the spot on my five-head that once was an active hair-growth epicenter. Shocked and afraid, I said “Yep. Genetics weren’t on my side, but I’ve got a nice smile!” 

I didn’t really attempt to win him over with my slowly receding hairline, but rather my willingness to work, and the idea that I was the only boy Irish Dancer in the room that day. We left with our eyes wide, not because of the odd audition we had just encountered, but because we could not believe that in all of 5 minutes he had called half the room fat, and me bald. Was this who we were about to start working for? Well, 5 days later, a fashionably late email surfaced in my inbox that began with a “Congratulations!” Suffice to say that I got the job, along with the rest of my Irish Dancing cohorts and the other skinny, hair-growing folk that were in the room. We weren’t sure exactly how to read this job offer, but we took it with the idea that someone wanted to pay us to dance, and for that we were thankful.

About a month passed and we hadn’t heard much news from them. With the intent of opening for Christmas, I was already a little terrified because I had pre-existing plans to jetset a little before I settled back down - which is so unlike me.. - and I had actually gotten nervous that with my being gone for the better part of two months, I was not a contender for this job anymore. That month of waiting became a month and a few weeks and as I was boarding the BART in San Francisco, I got a phone call. “We wanted to check and see if you’re still available to be a part of [the show].” I replied honestly, “I’m completely available after the holidays.” I was then told that they would get back to me, and really no news came my way until the choreographer emailed me, about 3 weeks after that phone call, saying rehearsals start December 17th. At this point, I was well into my European vacation, part four. I was spending 5 weeks in France, with side trips around Europe - all of which made me nearly unreachable. Yet, the emails that came supported my late arrivals to the rehearsal process. Could this job be that flexible for me? 

I arrived home January 11th. The next day, I went to my first rehearsal with my hardshoes and jetlag in my dancebag. The rehearsal process seemed to be well on its way. With me not really knowing much of anything, I sat aside and prepared myself for the upcoming process of opening a brand new show. I never really understood how unprepared I was for such an undertaking, but I can tell you this much: I wish now that I had bought a spanish to english dictionary and a washing machine.

xx