Image courtesy of Vladimir Pustovit. Licensed under CC BY 2.0.
The last few weeks have seen a pleasant, if repetitive, cycle of doing an unprecedented number of enjoyable, similar activities. Last week: team trivia on Tuesday, improv class on Wednesday, improv show on Thursday, improv volunteering on Friday, and a birthday party (for a friend I met through improv, because where else do I meet humans) on Saturday. I spend enough time at the bar attached to the theater that the waitress knows my name. I have, somewhat unexpectedly, become a Senior Volunteer Who Knows Things when a real employee is not around. It is very enjoyable.
It is also, for the most part, very boring to write about: I either am busy learning how to make things up for audiences, watching others make things up for audiences, or taking out the beer-filled trashcans of audiences who have recently watched someone make things up.
That said, this week’s birthday party was a completely delightful quasi-break from the routine. A friend turned 30, and her boyfriend rented out a local bar—a Cheers-style bar, a bar that emphatically Doesn’t Host Dancing—for an all-night dance extravaganza. No one was trying to look cool, at all, and so it was a glorious mash of drunk adult former theater kids ironic-dancing to early-90s Britney Spears with complete abandon.
A coworker wandered in right as I was miming along emphatically to “Get Low.” The song, in a great example of radio edits gone doofy, has swapped “all these bitches crawl” with “all these females crawl,” which isn’t really better, and the song did still keep its sweat/balls-based chorus.
So, you know, that’ll be something fun to discuss around the water cooler.
(Also the “tig ol’ bitties” line remained, which, I happened to make eye contact with a Very Sweet Man during the mutual singalong right as that came on, and you have never seen two people break uncomfortable eye contact quite as quickly as we did, reader.)
On top of that excitement, I spent the weekend slowly descending into spinsterdom: I built a cat condo that shipped at 70 pounds of raw materials and which—now that it’s assembled—stands about six feet tall. It is roughly the size of a couch. It is stupid and I am delighted by it, and I fully expect that I will one day lose a bit of scalp as my cat leaps from it onto my face in a final blaze of feline glory.