Recital weekend is over and now it’s time to relax and soothe my aching joints before next year. Here’s the thing, though: I’m not sure I’ll be able to get the stage grime fully off my feet before it’s time for next year’s recital. That stuff clings for life. Stage grime is to recitals what glitter is to crafts (although, admittedly, I’m also covered in a fair bit of glitter and none of it is actually mine). I fear that my feet will be black, greyish at the very least, until the day I die because I have spent so much time on that stage.
And, alright, yes, perhaps I should have worn shoes while I was working backstage. But, in my defense, it is really hard to quick-change people in bejeweled gladiator sandals. You may laugh, but foot mobility is very important when you only have fifteen seconds to change someone from a fourteen-piece hip hop costume into a tutu. It’s challenging, really. I’d like to see that on Survivor.
In any case, I have to see my masseuse today for another bout of healthy torture, and I’m a little ashamed of the state of my feet. I have now scrubbed them three times in the past twenty-four hours and they are still varying shades of grey. She will undoubtedly be revolted. Ah well.
~ Hilary Axle Hatchet
P.S. This is our 200th post so here’s a little something to celebrate.