Part 2 of 2

We had our first rehearsal, and three subsequent practices, for Twelfth Night (our not-so Shakespearean musical). For the veterans this could very well be their twentieth show, for me, it’s Mama takes the stage, take two. In other words, I’ve reached the terrible twos with this whole acting, singing dancing thing.

This is the practice where we go around the room and give a fun fact about ourselves. And being that I’m always wittier when I can hide behind a piece of paper, I’m not so comfortable with delivery, I had some preparing to do. Okay, a lot.

And dare you ask why am I preparing for an impromptu one-minute fact about myself? You’ll have to read on to understand that this wasn’t going to come eloquently unless I thought it through. Not to mention, the last time I had an experience this awkward, I had to ask a guy to the prom, well, actually, I had my friends ask for me so I wouldn’t have to feel that ridiculous. So let’s just say, if I had asked a guy that I knew to the prom, it would have been just as scary.

In fact, I was up several nights in advance. I didn’t even tell Alex or the kids about this. It was embarrassing enough. No one else in the cast was being so ridiculous. (And aren’t I still playing the fool to be admitting to it now? But this is Shakespeare, after all) In fact, their fun fact could be what they had for breakfast that morning, and especially if they were a lead, everyone would laugh anyway. Ensemble has it harder, because let’s face it, there are so many of us and we aren’t exactly a walking comedy skit. (Ok, I do like to entertain with a story or two).

Don’t get me wrong, we aren’t judged by our fun facts and everyone forgets them anyway. It’s three practices later and I can’t remember much of what was said that day. Luckily I have my daughter who makes me write this stuff down.

We heard how we are going to modernize the play. Bring in members of our community. For instance, the Illyrian bar will be named after the local watering hole and we will don paraphernalia from the local sports teams.

We went around the circle so everyone could have their spotlight. As I remembered perfectly from last year, there were the two camps: those who could truly skim the fat off the surface and say the latest witty thing that came to mind and those of us, like me, who had to rehearse, or should have rehearsed, what we were going to say up until our turn. (And then the aftermath, when we’re plagued with the replay hoping we sounded okay).

It’s just how it goes. But I was ready. I listened. Some gave recaps of all the fun facts they’d given over the years (they must have prepared, too) and those who hadn’t rehearsed, but secretly wished they had, and took the bandaid off quickly with a “my fun fact is (blank).” Get the spotlight off of me NOW! (This group also secretly wanted a chair to be missing so they could get out of playing Musical Chairs when they were kids).

And it was my turn. But before you can read on, this is really part two of a two part series and it would be wise if you read what I revealed in about myself in last week’s post about my blush with greatness in order to get me here. http://re-whos-who-aka-the-incognito-snowman. Whether you read it or you’re brave enough to read on, please understand, these words were not easy for me to say.

What I said, seemed to morph into what I wanted to say and now I can’t tell the difference between the two of them anyway. But I’ve belabored the telling of this long enough. So whether I said it out loud or in my head, this is how I’m going to recap this now:

“I’m Stephanie Ortiz (when you forget to say your in ensemble, that’s okay, everyone assumes since Deb didn’t ask me to clarify that, that’s who I am anyway). This is middle-aged Mama takes the stage take two. Take one was last year and I practically crawled on that stage, but I did it with the support of my daughters, who forced me to go through with it, and my stage husband (I looked over at Bill). I can’t act, I can’t sing, I can’t dance, but I did it anyway/. I’ve always watched greatness. I watched my Dad coach the Philadelphia 76ers to a world championship, and now this was my championship and I did it with you. So I’m a glutton for punishment and now I’m back again. And fun fact: I have some sports paraphernalia for you, Deb!”

Later my youngest said, Mommy, you had so many fun facts, why’d you have to give one more?” So there you have it, the only response that really mattered.

So why’d I do it? It had been haunting me all those years, always making me scared of the spotlight that would see right through me and show me up for who I really was, gasp, I was Mr. Cellophane. But that’s the wrong play, come back to Twelfth Night and there’s Malvoleo struggling with the very same concept: “Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them. “

I’m proud of all my Dad’s greatness, don’t get me wrong, but I couldn’t process it. I was only 13 and I was just trying to figure out who I was.

Maybe you could call it my journey of overcoming greatness: how I sat and watched greatness, thinking it was a one-man show only to finally realize you can’t open the door to your own greatness sitting in the audience. So there’s a moral to this story: the first rule of greatness is you can’t do it alone.

So that reminds me, I’ve just now entered the terrible two’s with this theater thing. Give this Mama just a little bit of a stage, have her turn 50 and just see what happens.