This afternoon, PizzaBoy and I went to see the end of term show that Maison Burlesque puts on for its students. A chance for the various classes to perform to a keen audience.
Well, I’m a new student, so this was the perfect way to see what each class actually did.
Me, a week ago: I’m going to do every single class they have.
Me, this afternoon: Oh no, I have to take my bra off from behind. I can’t manage that, I don’t have the shoulder flexibility. Oh no, pasties. Why would anyone want to see 60 year old me in pasties? They’d be pointing at the floor. Aw shit, there’s lying on the floor and getting up. Crud, g-strings. I don’t want to wear bum floss. High heels – fuck no.
The litany went on, and I shrank into myself. No one, just no one will want 60 year old me on stage wearing a 14-16F bra, size 16 boy leg undies, barefoot, my belly hanging down over my undies, and my boobs sagging. I’m 157cm tall, I weigh 71kg, everything jiggles, and sags.
I love my hair and skin. Everything else….no.
Yesterday, my arse got stuck in the wide part of a fucking kayak.
I’ve never backed away from a challenge. Oh, I tell a lie. I did decide not to do stand up comedy, despite being good at funny storytelling. Why? Because hecklers and audiences can be cruel, especially to women comics.
Will I back away from this? There’s no one demanding I perform. I can simply take class after class, and then sit in the audience watching my classmates. I think I’d feel disappointed in myself.
I just can’t imagine who the hell would cheer if I got up there. I was very pensive all the way home on the train, turning all this over.
Yeah, first world angst.
And very real body hating. Thanks youth-worshipping society. Thanks supermodels. Thanks mass media. Thanks patriarchy.
I have no idea how to turn my thinking around.
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