Mr. Hair and the Personal Standards
Okay, I'm oversensitive. I admit it; I would openly declare this behind a podium at the front of some immense lecture hall.
I am oversensitive, but rarely am I angry. I get sad, or hurt, but angry? No, thanks. That's for the Neanderthals! How undisciplined! Anger wastes the hell out of my energy, makes me annoyed with myself, and doesn't do a whole lot of good for humanity in general (as I tend to fume until a room essentially fills with the smoke that pours from my ears).
Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I was angry.
I do a lot of theater in the area-- in the most facetious way of putting it, I am an AC-TRESS! The majority of the time, in the current show that I'm performing, I am the only girl onstage. During rehearsals, I was often the only girl there. I made the gigantic mistake of letting the guys think they can walk all over me.
One guy in particular-- let's just call him Mr. Hair, as he seems to have forgone the natural progression of fashion and wears his hair something like Toby Maguire in Pleasantville-- tends to walk all over everyone. He is the LEAD, so that means he is automatically entitled to snark and snipe at every other cast member. Because he is the LEAD! And we are all just window-dressing; all our hard work is nothing. We bust our butts to play it straight so he looks even more outrageous, and he zings us for it. He often says things that are clever and amusing, but are too barbed to be jokes. They are veiled in humor, vaguely insulting and make you wish you could disappear in your chair, but not before you forcefully insert a fondue fork through his smug face.
ONCE UPON A TIME, I saved his skinny ass. He was stranded on the side of the road, out of gas. I turned around and went ten minutes out of my way, drove him to a gas station (not once, but twice) at midnight in the middle of November.
To note: I also have the mouth of a sailor-- one that's been on shore leave for a good long time. I say damn, hell, and ass on a regular basis, but I try not to let the others slip too much.
To continue. We perform three times on Saturdays-- two matinees and a typical evening performance. By the time the evening performance rolls around, we are all tired and achy. But the show must go on and all that other crap they stuff down your throat to make you feel like you have to have energy.
As I came offstage, the heel on my shoe turned, twisting my ankle viciously. Tired, fed up, sore, and in pain, I let out an emphatic "fuck!"
Mr. Hair, standing nearby, proceeded to look shocked and offer a few "hey now, hey now"s. I stormed off in high dudgeon (high dudgeon meaning with one shoe in my hand and one on my foot, stump-limping down the hallway). The minute I was alone, however, I felt like a horrible human being. I hadn't meant to be offensive; that was no good. No matter how I disdain him, I still didn't want him to think that I was a dislikable person who said "fuck" at a moment's notice (shut up, it doesn't matter if it's true, I make an effort not to, so that makes me a woman who is trying to better herself, okay?!).
Twenty minutes later, while we were both setting our props for the next scene, I drew him aside and apologized.
"I didn't mean to offend you-- did I really offend you? I really apologize, seriously."
"Oh," he said offhandedly. "Well." Smirk. "We all know you have a pottymouth, sailor."
I conceded. "Yeah, well, I guess I do on occasion. But for real, that wasn't cool of me-- I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, don't expect me to lower my standards to match yours," he replied in his best I'm-so-joking-but-did-you-miss-how-I-think-you're-lower-than-a-shellfish voice, and then whisked off.
Me: ...
I promptly locked myself in a bathroom and cried for a good minute... and then I moved into anger.
Who the hell is this guy anyway? Who does he think he is, that he can comment on my standards, of all things? And after I saved his skinny forty-pounds-soaking-wet ass in the middle of November from certain doom and death on the side of a highway right near a PRISON?
Let us put this situation into the universal scale. I said "fuck". He backbites, gossips, can't keep his mouth shut, never says a nice thing about anybody, and wears his hair like an ABSOLUTE IDIOT.
Jury?
(Special thanks to Josh for validating me at one-thirty in the morning while I cried. "He insulted you while you were apologizing? What a jackass!" He's kind of awesome.)
I am oversensitive, but rarely am I angry. I get sad, or hurt, but angry? No, thanks. That's for the Neanderthals! How undisciplined! Anger wastes the hell out of my energy, makes me annoyed with myself, and doesn't do a whole lot of good for humanity in general (as I tend to fume until a room essentially fills with the smoke that pours from my ears).
Tonight, for the first time in a long time, I was angry.
I do a lot of theater in the area-- in the most facetious way of putting it, I am an AC-TRESS! The majority of the time, in the current show that I'm performing, I am the only girl onstage. During rehearsals, I was often the only girl there. I made the gigantic mistake of letting the guys think they can walk all over me.
One guy in particular-- let's just call him Mr. Hair, as he seems to have forgone the natural progression of fashion and wears his hair something like Toby Maguire in Pleasantville-- tends to walk all over everyone. He is the LEAD, so that means he is automatically entitled to snark and snipe at every other cast member. Because he is the LEAD! And we are all just window-dressing; all our hard work is nothing. We bust our butts to play it straight so he looks even more outrageous, and he zings us for it. He often says things that are clever and amusing, but are too barbed to be jokes. They are veiled in humor, vaguely insulting and make you wish you could disappear in your chair, but not before you forcefully insert a fondue fork through his smug face.
ONCE UPON A TIME, I saved his skinny ass. He was stranded on the side of the road, out of gas. I turned around and went ten minutes out of my way, drove him to a gas station (not once, but twice) at midnight in the middle of November.
To note: I also have the mouth of a sailor-- one that's been on shore leave for a good long time. I say damn, hell, and ass on a regular basis, but I try not to let the others slip too much.
To continue. We perform three times on Saturdays-- two matinees and a typical evening performance. By the time the evening performance rolls around, we are all tired and achy. But the show must go on and all that other crap they stuff down your throat to make you feel like you have to have energy.
As I came offstage, the heel on my shoe turned, twisting my ankle viciously. Tired, fed up, sore, and in pain, I let out an emphatic "fuck!"
Mr. Hair, standing nearby, proceeded to look shocked and offer a few "hey now, hey now"s. I stormed off in high dudgeon (high dudgeon meaning with one shoe in my hand and one on my foot, stump-limping down the hallway). The minute I was alone, however, I felt like a horrible human being. I hadn't meant to be offensive; that was no good. No matter how I disdain him, I still didn't want him to think that I was a dislikable person who said "fuck" at a moment's notice (shut up, it doesn't matter if it's true, I make an effort not to, so that makes me a woman who is trying to better herself, okay?!).
Twenty minutes later, while we were both setting our props for the next scene, I drew him aside and apologized.
"I didn't mean to offend you-- did I really offend you? I really apologize, seriously."
"Oh," he said offhandedly. "Well." Smirk. "We all know you have a pottymouth, sailor."
I conceded. "Yeah, well, I guess I do on occasion. But for real, that wasn't cool of me-- I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, don't expect me to lower my standards to match yours," he replied in his best I'm-so-joking-but-did-you-miss-how-I-think-you're-lower-than-a-shellfish voice, and then whisked off.
Me: ...
I promptly locked myself in a bathroom and cried for a good minute... and then I moved into anger.
Who the hell is this guy anyway? Who does he think he is, that he can comment on my standards, of all things? And after I saved his skinny forty-pounds-soaking-wet ass in the middle of November from certain doom and death on the side of a highway right near a PRISON?
Let us put this situation into the universal scale. I said "fuck". He backbites, gossips, can't keep his mouth shut, never says a nice thing about anybody, and wears his hair like an ABSOLUTE IDIOT.
Jury?
(Special thanks to Josh for validating me at one-thirty in the morning while I cried. "He insulted you while you were apologizing? What a jackass!" He's kind of awesome.)
posted by Chelsey at 10:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home