I entered the harshly lit room in the basement of the Platt Performing Arts Center, trembling with trepidation. What was I doing here? Putting myself out there again. Last time I did something like this, I got my heart broken. Stomped on. Snapped in two. Could I do it again?
I tried calming my nerves, but the symptoms were all-too-apparent: sweaty palms and shaking hands. But this was my one chance. Come on, I said. You can do this! So I filled out the forms, and looked my fear right in the face: The Ladies of the Vagina, in all of their judgemental glory. Alas, on that Saturday morning, I learned an important lesson in life. FDR was wrong. There are plenty of things to fear in life, other than fear itself. And rejection is horrifically high on that list of fear-instilling things. Sadly, that’s exactly what I got.
I’m usually good at handling rejection, but this time it came as a harsh blow to the ego. You see, I’d always assumed that I was a great actress, but my spirits were crushed by a simple email. The subject line: CAST OF THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES 2009!!!! And there it was. The cast list. Without my name on it. You’d think they would’ve taken us off the listserv, us rejectees. But no. We were made to scroll through the entire email and reach the end in rapturous displeasure.
That’s okay, we told ourselves, it’ll all be over soon. Except, it wasn’t. The next three months were a constant stream of Vagina this and Vagina that. Cast activities, rehearsals — none of which I was invited to attend for obvious reasons. So I unsubscribed from the listserv not once, but thrice. But the gods of Gmail decided that I should continue receiving these scarlet letters in not just a trickle, but a flood.
This was only until the actual show of course, when I was forced to be supportive. I had friends in the cast and crew so I inevitably ended up in the second row, staring at what could and arguably should have been. The black and red outfit I would’ve worn. The lines I would’ve enunciated. The moderately attractive male I would’ve focused my attention on in the audience. But alas, it never came to be. So, I was forced to grin and bear it. I screamed “CUNT” when they did. I laughed when they did. But inside, I died a little with every on-stage moan.
