MY NEW BRA

It’s late, time for guilty pleasure TV viewing. Since “Bret Michels Rock of Love” is on hiatus, I’m mainlining Pirate’s Booty and am instead watching Kathy Griffin’s show on Bravo. Kathy’s Mom is getting a new bra, her first in 17 years. Mom wants to tell everyone about it. She’ll even show you if you ask. She didn’t know she needed one, but once she got her new bra, she realized how long it had been, how long she’d needed to make the change. 17 years is a long time.

I’m about to go onstage. It’s the first time I’ll have “performed” in front of an audience since I quit being a failed actor. I’m about to read an essay I had published earlier this year on the stage of a theatre I had performed on so many times before, performing someone else’s lines. Now, it’s just me and a music stand, an audience, and my own words. I started acting 17 years ago. 17 years is a long time.

I didn’t so much as quit; I just stopped trying. I could deal with the poverty; I just couldn’t deal with dreading any annual event where someone I’d known since I was 6 might politely ask, “What’s new?” To which I could only respond, “Nothing.” The universal remote control of my life was on “Pause” and I wanted to be on “Play.” Then I got to an age where standing still, without any progress, just stuck in effort, was no longer cute. And so I just sort of stopped.

“I’m listening to the world,” I’d tell my actor friends who’d look at me like I was mainlining more than snacks. “Sometimes you’ve got to listen to the world. Chances are it’s telling you something.” Once I listened, I heard the world say, “It’s not happening.” And so, like that, I was no longer an actor, and became a failed actor, not on strike, but quit for good.

I come from a long line of non-quitters, live in a city full of dreamers who don’t quit things unless they’re married to them, living in a country, which promises rewards to anyone who works hard. But the truth is, you can work as hard as you want, and if you’re working at the wrong thing, you might as well have never tried. It’s hard work to admit your failings and listen long enough to know when it’s not happening and never will. Whether it be a job, a friendship, or a romance, sometimes it’s just not gonna happen no matter what you do. The biggest effort is being willing to close doors, say no to a dream, and no longer have the option of coming back. It’s an effort to change.

I don’t mind admitting that I failed. I don’t mind because I worked hard and then, maybe a little too late, realized it wasn’t happening. My life will be as much marked by the doors I’ve closed, the people I’ve said goodbye to, the dreams I’ve traded in for new ones as it will be marked by the things I accomplish. If there’s anything I’m proud of, it’s knowing when to quit and being willing to make a change. It’s hard to admit we’re not who we were, not good at what we wanted to be good at, or haven’t achieved what we think we should. It’s hard to look in the mirror and give yourself an honest glance and admit that your life is as ill a fit as that 17 year-old bra.

I’ve just gotten offstage. I’ve performed here a million times, but tonight I’m a writer reading my own stuff. My husband and a buddy are waiting for me in the lobby. There’s the inevitable high fives and “good jobs”. I look back at the theatre where I’d performed so many times. It’s nice to revisit my old life and even nicer to leave. My husband pulls the car around. I hop in, turn back to my old stomping grounds and can’t help but think, “I’m so glad I’m not an actor.” 17 years is a long time.