Reclaiming My Space

Words can scarcely describe how grateful I am to be home again. Over the last week, I covered 1,500 miles and 4 big cities (if you count my Boston originating and end-point). Every leg of the trip was worthwhile, but add all those miles and unfamiliar residences together and a girl just gets tired, you know?(1)

So I’m glad it’s the weekend, and also that the unique Massachusetts tradition of Patriots’ Day means I can stay mostly in nesting mode for the next 3 days.

And I know exactly what I want to do with the time.

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Under My Wig

It may seem odd to learn that I am building myself quite the collection of wigs.

Or maybe that doesn’t seem odd at all, given my theatrical pursuits. It’s almost inevitable, when you contemplate the number of B’way musicals that take place in various historical times and places. Cross-reference that against my stubborn insistence that I don’t feel like myself without a super-short pixie cut, and wigs become de riguer for faking my way into the settings of most musicals. 1920s, 1860s, 1890s…they all require wigs.

Luckily enough, I’m able to recycle some of these for different shows: the top record thus far is 1 wig that has been used for 3 different shows set in the 19th century. I haven’t even bothered to take it out of its snood between productions. Still, new roles and new concepts mean I keep adding to the collection here and there.

So maybe this growing wig collection of mine strikes you as odd, dear reader, or maybe it doesn’t. What I know for damn sure is that this growing wig collection strikes me as somewhat ridiculous.

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I Wanna Be a Dancin’ Man

QUICK HIT: I should be digging back into my work deadlines, but I wanted to knock out a quick blogpost first. And then, instead of writing anything, I’ve been going down the Youtube rabbit hole for the last 45 minutes or so.

Most of what I’ve been watching is various dance-themed videos. Joseph Gordon-Levitt doing “Rhythm Nation” on Lip Sync Battle; Ms. Mojo’s list of the top 10 best-choreographed music videos; Shirley MacLaine explaining (and demonstrating!) different choreographic styles. And lots and lots and lots of Fosse.

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A white ceramic cookie jar with a red lid. The jar is decorated with a drawing of a rooster and the words: "Kellogg's, Good Morning"

Addicted to Air

I’ve talked a time or two already about how my pre-diabetes diagnosis has me looking at various ways to reduce the amount of sugars and carbs in my daily food intake. What that also means is I have stumbled across so many books and websites that play on the tired old trope of “sugar addiction.”

I’m not going to amplify any of those sources here tonight—you can find them easily enough by making your own visit to Professor Google. Besides, you don’t need to know much more than the fact that this metaphor is out there loud and strong in the culture to be able to ride along with my complicated feelings on the topic. Mostly critique, but some small resonance, as well.

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Either-Or

I don’t know if I’ve talked about it here on JALC, but there was a stretch of time during my Philly years that I became a low-grade devotee of short-form improv. All of which is a somewhat pretentious way to say I took a few classes, did a few student shows, and attended the occasional improv “playdate” with other amateurs who just wanted to keep to fun of the practice going.

But one of the reasons I’m drawn towards the more pretentious phrasing around being a “devotee” is the way in which studying improv during those few years was absolutely transformational for my life, my career, and my psychological health. This is not hyperbole: legit transformed.

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Help That Truly Helps

I’ve been talking around the fringes of my pre-diabetes diagnosis for a few posts, between the questionable nature of the diagnostic category, and my continued adventures re-engaging with yoga. But it’s feeling as if a more generalized circle-back on the topic wouldn’t be a bad thing tonight, especially since I am still 100% mid-tome in my reading of Wolf Hall.(1)

First things first: even though I am beyond cheesed at the suspect nature of the whole “prediabetes” terminology, given what I learned last week about the topic, I’m still choosing—at least for the moment—to continue using that term for my diagnosis. Because however problematic the U.S. medical system’s application of that term may be, it is the U.S. medical system in which I have to exist right now.(2) So I might as well keep using the diagnostic label all my medical professionals are going to be using on my chart.(3)

Now, I reserve the right to change my mind about this down the line. But it’s where I’ve landed for the nonce.

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