Thursday, March 2nd

Even though I’d planned to do so when I got up and got dressed, I did not make it to the gym yesterday – what with spending several hours writing about my spineless lover John. (As I said the last time I wrote thousands of words in one sitting, if it comes to a choice between writing and the gym, writing will always win.)

I spent a further hour yesterday writing a lengthy reply to another message from my online dating-boosting mate, who seems to believe that many of my problems could be solved (or at least lightened) if I just got myself laid. She might very well be right. Chance would be a fine thing. And I do emphasise the word chance. I don’t seek out lovers. I stumble across them. As I said to my friend, I’ve spent my entire adult life telling strange men who’ve approach me to fuck right off. Am I really supposed to start spending $15 a month to meet these guys? Ain’t gonna happen.

Sex? Yes, I suppose it could be lovely indeed. (Emphasis on could.) What if it wasn’t? As I said to my friend yesterday, the only thing worse than no sex is bad sex. And, as I also said to her yesterday, it’s been so long I’m far from sure I could still, as it were, get it up. (I like to think it’s like riding a bicycle, but what if it isn’t?)

If John (who, despite his lack of spine, was a very good lover) or any one of several lovers past were to show up at my door this evening with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine, yes, I would undoubtedly invite them into my bed. Unfortunately I know for a fact that the top two candidates are dead, so the odds of seeing them again anywhere except my dreams or eventually at that cosmic cocktail party are pretty slim. Actually, I’m not even sure about John. I mean, what if he was grossly fat and completely bald now? No, I don’t think there’d be enough flowers – although it’s possible there could be enough wine.

No, as I told my friend, I’m not really looking for sex. What I really want is for someone to come over once a week, give me a shoulder and foot massage, tickle my back for an hour or two and then leave. If he (or she) could manage two evenings a week, all the better. As far as I know there is no website offering that particular service. (Even if there was, I couldn’t afford to pay for it.)

In other news: Oh, my god, opening night is a week from tomorrow! Four more rehearsals and then it’s show time!

Tuesday night there was a rehearsal at the venue for all three one-act plays. We were up second. The five cast members and the director of the third play sat in the audience for our rehearsal. The next day the director sent a very complimentary email to Charlie (for his acting) and me (for both my acting and the play itself). As this woman is a semi-professional, this was praise indeed.

I, of course, wasn’t sure the praise was merited. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s a bloody good play and Charlie is fantastic in his role. (Just as well, as he pretty much has to carry the final third.) It was my own performance I found disappointing. At one point in the play my character talks about witnessing a horrific rape. There have been rehearsals at Dave’s when I’ve almost (and quite genuinely) been reduced to tears in that moment. Not on Tuesday. Nope. It just wasn’t there. Couldn’t get it up.

Now I can tell myself (and I am) that it was the worst possible type of rehearsal: punishing fluorescent house lights up, making it impossible to not be aware of the audience sitting there. And I can tell myself it will be better when we’re performing with the stage lights. I hope so, because I want to give this all I’ve got. (If for no other reason than, for the moment, this is indeed all I’ve got.) I want this to be Joe Carter’s 1993 World Series winning home run. I want to knock it out of the park.

So, more work to do.