notebook about hating General Electric (home of her most recently botched job interview), while Diana talked on the phone with her travel agent about the price of flights to Sydney in August. That was the last time I’d seen the dress. I’d brought a spare just in case, but I liked the other one better. It was white, and white seemed like the right color for a fresh start.
My warm-up inched by. I practiced, I did my hair, I practiced, I started to feel shaky, I started to feel nauseous, I did my makeup, I tried to think about happy things like the beach and chocolate ice cream, I ended up wondering if Jeremy would be in the audience, I threw up, I practiced, I paced, I did this windmill thing with my arms to try to force the blood to my fingertips, and then I practiced a little more. Not having Diana there at least gave me something concrete to stress about. Getting nervous about getting nervous was just too abstract to get a grip on, but Icould freak out about not having my dress arrive and that felt much better.
What am I doing? The thought seized my brain every few minutes, and I’d try to smother the panic with some relaxation exercises Dr. Wright had suggested at my follow-up appointment: deep breaths, calm thoughts, deep breaths, calm thoughts, deep breaths, calm thoughts. Dr. Wright really was full of crap.
At fifteen minutes to go, I started pacing faster, this time in a wide loop around the dressing room: between the coffee table and the sofa, over the ottoman, around the piano, down the mirrored wall, repeat. My legs shook under me, but the repetition was oddly numbing. An image of the polar bears in the Lincoln Park Zoo came to my mind, lumbering pitifully around their cages in the same circuit over and over. Maybe they had anxiety issues too.
Where was she? Diana was never late, so being late to a performance was completely unthinkable. My stomach still hurt from the puking. Would she be able to tell? I looked in the mirror. Scary. My skin was an eerie greenish-white, my stage makeup even more garish than usual. Glossy red lipstick, green eye shadow over bloodshot eyes—I looked like a circus clown with the stomach flu. I’d taken off my shirt before hair and makeup, and was wearing just jeans and a bra, adding another layer ofweird to the image in the mirror. How could Jeremy kiss that face?
I opened the closet and took out the dress bag holding my backup, a navy blue organza dress with a sweetheart neckline. I was deciding whether I should put it on or go back to the bathroom to throw up again, when the door swung open.
“You wouldn’t believe traffic,” Diana gasped, twirling around to hang the dress bag on the hook behind the door and tossing a Sak’s Fifth Avenue bag on the sofa in one breathless movement. “I almost forgot the pantyhose,” she added and pulled a package of sheer control-tops out of her purse.
I grabbed the garment bag and unzipped it, in too much of a hurry to hide my shaking hands. It was like I remembered, simple but dramatic, the color of milk, strapless, with a wide blood-red sash tied around the waist. It was the kind of dress that drew eyes in and held them. I took off my jeans, put on the pantyhose, and pulled on the dress. It fit perfectly.
I looked in the mirror again. The image was less scary. The dress was stunning. My lips and the sash looked like they’d been dipped in the same dye, and the sickly shade of my skin was definitely less noticeable.
Over my shoulder, Diana’s reflection frowned at me. I turned away.
My fingers. I had to stop the shaking. I picked up my violin to do one last round of shifting drills. They were ugly and whiny (according to Clark, the drills sound exactly like the noise a cat makes when you swing it around by the tail), but they helped get the blood pumping to my fingers.
Diana changed into her own outfit, a long tight mauve dress, while pretending not to watch me. I kept up the cat wrangling and pretended not to notice her
My warm-up inched by. I practiced, I did my hair, I practiced, I started to feel shaky, I started to feel nauseous, I did my makeup, I tried to think about happy things like the beach and chocolate ice cream, I ended up wondering if Jeremy would be in the audience, I threw up, I practiced, I paced, I did this windmill thing with my arms to try to force the blood to my fingertips, and then I practiced a little more. Not having Diana there at least gave me something concrete to stress about. Getting nervous about getting nervous was just too abstract to get a grip on, but Icould freak out about not having my dress arrive and that felt much better.
What am I doing? The thought seized my brain every few minutes, and I’d try to smother the panic with some relaxation exercises Dr. Wright had suggested at my follow-up appointment: deep breaths, calm thoughts, deep breaths, calm thoughts, deep breaths, calm thoughts. Dr. Wright really was full of crap.
At fifteen minutes to go, I started pacing faster, this time in a wide loop around the dressing room: between the coffee table and the sofa, over the ottoman, around the piano, down the mirrored wall, repeat. My legs shook under me, but the repetition was oddly numbing. An image of the polar bears in the Lincoln Park Zoo came to my mind, lumbering pitifully around their cages in the same circuit over and over. Maybe they had anxiety issues too.
Where was she? Diana was never late, so being late to a performance was completely unthinkable. My stomach still hurt from the puking. Would she be able to tell? I looked in the mirror. Scary. My skin was an eerie greenish-white, my stage makeup even more garish than usual. Glossy red lipstick, green eye shadow over bloodshot eyes—I looked like a circus clown with the stomach flu. I’d taken off my shirt before hair and makeup, and was wearing just jeans and a bra, adding another layer ofweird to the image in the mirror. How could Jeremy kiss that face?
I opened the closet and took out the dress bag holding my backup, a navy blue organza dress with a sweetheart neckline. I was deciding whether I should put it on or go back to the bathroom to throw up again, when the door swung open.
“You wouldn’t believe traffic,” Diana gasped, twirling around to hang the dress bag on the hook behind the door and tossing a Sak’s Fifth Avenue bag on the sofa in one breathless movement. “I almost forgot the pantyhose,” she added and pulled a package of sheer control-tops out of her purse.
I grabbed the garment bag and unzipped it, in too much of a hurry to hide my shaking hands. It was like I remembered, simple but dramatic, the color of milk, strapless, with a wide blood-red sash tied around the waist. It was the kind of dress that drew eyes in and held them. I took off my jeans, put on the pantyhose, and pulled on the dress. It fit perfectly.
I looked in the mirror again. The image was less scary. The dress was stunning. My lips and the sash looked like they’d been dipped in the same dye, and the sickly shade of my skin was definitely less noticeable.
Over my shoulder, Diana’s reflection frowned at me. I turned away.
My fingers. I had to stop the shaking. I picked up my violin to do one last round of shifting drills. They were ugly and whiny (according to Clark, the drills sound exactly like the noise a cat makes when you swing it around by the tail), but they helped get the blood pumping to my fingers.
Diana changed into her own outfit, a long tight mauve dress, while pretending not to watch me. I kept up the cat wrangling and pretended not to notice her
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