auditions
let me explain exactly WHY auditions are so horrific.
Imagine YOU. Walking into a room where there are 300 gorgeous girls in one room, all seemingly knowing each other and becoming reunited with squels of utter feminine delight. Not knowing where to register, and when you finally do, the instructors seem bored and pissed off as they hand you Number 539, and you give them a pitiful picture of yourself. Watching everyone casually show off their flexability or precision with ease, as they chat stupidly with friends, or reminisce about the summer before.
Finally being called in to a mirrored room where you are ordered according to number, and you see your reflection, and you are either a)hideously ugly commpared to everyone, b)hideously fat compared to everyone, c)hideously untalented compared to everyone, or d) all of the above.
The class begins and you miss the combinations because a) you dont understand the teacher, b)they spoke extremely fast, c)you were busy reorganizing yourself to not hit the girl next to you when you grande battement side, or d) you weren't paying attention.
Center is even worse. Groups of a smaller, undesignated number where you don't know which line of numbers you belong to, and the only hope around is that, "oh, i was next to the girl in the black leotard." NEWSFLASH: everyone's in a balck leotard. So you guess what line grouping you are in. And then the instructors yells out, "where's number 539?" and you realize that you were obviously in the wrong group, and now you look like a dunce.
Half of the combinations in the center you either a)don't understand, b) totally fucked up, c) fell and/or went in the wrong group, or d) may have done slightly okay, but they weren't looking at you, they were looking at Number 545 who is absolutly exceptional and perfect in every fuckin imaginable way.
You pray for the two hours to go by quickly.
You thank the teachers for the intolerable two hours, smile at the pianist, and exit the premisis.
Operation Impress Them, has failed miserable.
And you are back to square one.
have i mentioned i hate dance?
Imagine YOU. Walking into a room where there are 300 gorgeous girls in one room, all seemingly knowing each other and becoming reunited with squels of utter feminine delight. Not knowing where to register, and when you finally do, the instructors seem bored and pissed off as they hand you Number 539, and you give them a pitiful picture of yourself. Watching everyone casually show off their flexability or precision with ease, as they chat stupidly with friends, or reminisce about the summer before.
Finally being called in to a mirrored room where you are ordered according to number, and you see your reflection, and you are either a)hideously ugly commpared to everyone, b)hideously fat compared to everyone, c)hideously untalented compared to everyone, or d) all of the above.
The class begins and you miss the combinations because a) you dont understand the teacher, b)they spoke extremely fast, c)you were busy reorganizing yourself to not hit the girl next to you when you grande battement side, or d) you weren't paying attention.
Center is even worse. Groups of a smaller, undesignated number where you don't know which line of numbers you belong to, and the only hope around is that, "oh, i was next to the girl in the black leotard." NEWSFLASH: everyone's in a balck leotard. So you guess what line grouping you are in. And then the instructors yells out, "where's number 539?" and you realize that you were obviously in the wrong group, and now you look like a dunce.
Half of the combinations in the center you either a)don't understand, b) totally fucked up, c) fell and/or went in the wrong group, or d) may have done slightly okay, but they weren't looking at you, they were looking at Number 545 who is absolutly exceptional and perfect in every fuckin imaginable way.
You pray for the two hours to go by quickly.
You thank the teachers for the intolerable two hours, smile at the pianist, and exit the premisis.
Operation Impress Them, has failed miserable.
And you are back to square one.
have i mentioned i hate dance?