I knew today wasn’t going to be my day when there was no soap in the shower.

My husband had warned me.  “We’re out of soap,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.  The soap at that point had the approximate density of an oak leaf.  Still, at 7:30 in the morning when I hauled my carcass into the shower, I learned (once wet) that my husband had meant that we were absolutely out of soap.  The leaf had disintegrated or vanished into damp air.

“This is not going to be your day.  You should go back to bed,” I told myself as I leaned out of the shower to fumble through our stash of hotel-room samples.  Locating a travel-sized shower gel with ginger bead exfoliant, I maneuvered back under the shower spray.  “You’re up,” my drill sergeant self said to my gentler, more intuitive self.  “You’re in the shower.  You’re going on this audition.”

My hippie self really needs to learn to stand up to my drill sergeant self.  Because at 8:50 when I approached Chelsea Studios, I knew that something was awry.  There weren’t nearly enough bleary-eyed, overdone auditionees traipsing through the lobby.  The telltale air of desperation was noticeably lacking.  I checked the studio schedule scotch-taped to the wall.  No mention of my audition.  I checked my planner.  I had gotten the location and the day right.  I jumped into a waiting elevator and headed upstairs to investigate.

“That audition was postponed indefinitely,” said the jaded desk attendant.  “Like, yesterday.  Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I said, helping myself to the gumball machine full of free M&Ms.  (That’s why I love Chelsea Studios.)  I had another audition to attend.

When I got to Actor’s Equity, the line for the Hangar Theatre’s auditions snaked through the waiting area, folding twice, and extended down the hallway, past the bathrooms and studios B and C.

“Only the alternate list is available,” the unnaturally cheery audition monitor informed me.  I couldn’t wait around on the alternate list all day, so I wearily trudged home, arriving before my dear husband had even gotten out of bed.  It was not yet 10:00, and my whole morning had been a flop.

I haven’t gone on an equity cattle call throughout all of December or January.  Nor have I gone on an agent call.  My agents claim they haven’t forgotten about me.  “Things wax and wane,” they explain.  But ever since my favorite agent departed for motherhood, I’ve been remarkably un-busy.  Meanwhile, I’ve tried to settle into the 9 to 5 routine proffered by my internship at the Overlook Press.  While there I ask myself almost every minute, “Do you like this?  Could you do this full time?”  And the answer thus far is yes.  Especially after mornings like these.

But I’m also looking for a sign:  someone or something to tell me what to do.  I actively pray for a sign.  “Lord, should I continue to pursue an acting career or should I do something else?”  So far, I haven’t received a definitive, Moses-from-the-mountain-type sign.  Broadway has not called to book me.  I have not been struck, figuratively or literally, by a bolt of lightening.  (Thank God.)  All I get is soapless showers and the distinct impression that I just should’ve stayed in bed.

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