I would speak broadly about women and body issues and self-perception, but I have a judgmental, selfish little mind and too much junk unevenly distributed in my trunk to discuss it from an educated and reasonable perspective.
Here's the thing, though. It's impossible not to at least somewhat speak broadly about it, because all I - and all other people - are doing is comparing my body to some skinny blonde bitch who's never eaten a bacon cheeseburger [topped with barbecue sauce and onion rings and probably fries on the side with maple mayo].
My fiance and I moved recently to The City of Sin, where old men dress up like Victoria's Secret Angels and roofers drop twelve hundred bucks in a night on video poker and Red Bull Vodkas. Naturally I figured I would immediately become rich by being scantily clad and singing Mariah Carey on a table. At the very least, I envisioned myself in a slinky red dress on a piano. And what with my credentials (honors degree from the top liberal arts college in the country, a resume practically busting at the seams with arts experience), it would only be a matter of days, really, before Celine Dion discovered me and decided she would spend the rest of her life doing my backup vocals and/or being my personal assistant cum stage manager.
I forgot one thing, though.
SLIGHTLY OBESE BLACK BITCHES DON'T MAKE BANK.
Over the past few months, I have had to admit to myself that I am not the delicate size 6 that I was in high school. Nor am I so overweight that I can immediately be typecast in mammy roles. NOR, I should say, am I some crazy-ass belter who learned to sing in a Baptist church with some loving Queen-Latifah-like maternal so-and-so to steer her out of her broke-down walk-up slum apartment towards fame and fortune. Nay, my loyal readers, I am a child of choral music (don't let that new Artistic Director fool you; in my day I was the token black girl and we did one gospel tune a season, every one of which I was incompetent at singing). Bach cantatas, John Rutter's contemporary bullshit with too many add9s (all of which I obviously adore), Gregorian-style motets and Jewish music set for two-part vocal harmony is all I knew until I got to college, when I horrifyingly applied my madrigal prowess to a jazz combo.
And, more to the point: nay, my loyal readers, I am 186.5 pounds of classically trained nerd.
To be fair, I am out of my element. I left my college-town home, where, at the neighboring community theaters and chorus rehearsals, I was the best thing since Nikki Wadleigh. (Shout-out.) I even made for a suitable stage stripper/crack addict a few times. And versatile directors who can appreciate that some hoes got curves are really who I have to thank for my beefcake resume.
So what now? In this bizarre city where art is exclusively entertainment and nothing more, a cat fart would make a larger impression than the aforementioned beefcake resume. Last week, I auditioned for Rock of Ages, a jukebox musical forged from 80s rock (again, exclusively entertainment, nothing more). It was a damned disaster. I showed up in my flats and short black skirt, doing my best to appear classy and yet potentially skanky, and was immediately smacked upside the head with pleather miniskirts, neon spandex and big hair. Not naturally qualifying for any of the roles (the only one slated specifically for a black woman was basically Aunt Jemima), my intent was to present myself as an attractive but blank slate who could fit anywhere. And I might've even gotten away with it if I'd weighed twenty pounds less.
Or if I'd been white, dare I say.
Or if I'd had an STD and was willing to share it with the director. Whatever.
I mean, what I would really love to do is separate these things out. The weight, the race, the training. For better or for worse, they are part of the package. And frankly, there were more black people there than I've seen since that time I had a layover in the Atlanta airport. But the key: they were all literally either size 2 or overweight and could "sang," as we say in the African-American Vernacular English, of which we have already established I am an expert.
So where do us in-between girls fit in? And going back to the fact that I have a judgmental, selfish little mind, where do I fit in? I feel mad nasty. I was an athlete, up until, well, up until I wasn't. And when I go to the gym, I glare at the chicks who are there exclusively to pick up men and pretend that they don't care about anything by sitting on the bike going .2 miles an hour and texting about how they're going to get sooooooo wasted tonight with their perfectly flat stomachs in their purple sports bras and nothing else with their yoga pants slung low so we can see their slutty-ass meaningless tattoos creeping out from their artfully shaved pubic region, and I want to either punch them, shove their pink iPhone cases down their throats, or go to the front desk and say in a very small and non-confrontational voice, "Excuse me, ma'am? I know that Planet Fitness has this judgment-free mantra? And I know that here we are supposed to not be uncomfortable in our bodies? And that woman over there, it kind of seems like she maybe should put a shirt on? Because it makes me aware that to society my body is inadequate and possibly even disgusting?"
Here's the thing. I don't want to be scantily clad, singing Mariah Carey on a table for a living while old men try to look up my hoo-ha. And I don't want to be in a damn 80s jukebox musical. I do not want to create art that exists exclusively to entertain, because I'm better than that. And these are all things that I would immediately be sucked into if I didn't have back fat that my shirt gets stuck in sometimes. So, you know, THAT'S cool.
What bothers me most is two-fold: first, by Western Mass standards, and by general, individual, personal standards, I am fuckin' fyyyyyyyyyyyyyyne. Which is cool, whatever, I'm in a committed relationship, I'm an egotistical c-u-next-Tuesday, whatever. And something I dislike about that, but maybe it just is what it is, is that things have been relatively easy. I don't have to throw myself at employers and directors because I'm unattractive. They hear me by default because I'm not unattractive. And frankly, I am used to that. I am used to being naturally above average on the attractive scale and therefore not having to worry about what I look like when I walk into a room. But also? I'm not getting jobs in the industry I know and thought I understood, and it's not because I'm not capable. It is because what I bring to the table doesn't fit into any existing ideals, and every time it's because of one factor: "Well, if she were thinner..." "Well, if she were white..." "Well, if she would sing like she were actually black instead of this weird folky musical theater fusion..."
It is also probably because people are not sure where my ribcage is, and nobody wants that shit on a stage. I haven't seen Celine Dion lately, but I'm sure her ribcage is around.
The bottom line is obviously that I need to lose weight. Unfortunately, the bottom line is also that I have to spend time giving a rat's ass about my image instead of honing my craft. And when that happens, I walk into a casting call feeling bad about myself, because everyone else looks like they don't have to try. And when THAT happens, I do something dumb like screw up the words to Pat Benatar and then scat to cover my ass, and then casting directors say, "Man, we just love that you kept going!" or "I can tell you worked really hard on that!" or "Wow, there's a lot on your resume!" And then I drive home in a funk and get drunk with the skeevy old racist dude down the street. Cruel cycle, lemme tell you.
There's a certain shallowness to this that both angers me and depresses me. I am not the woman I thought I would be. I didn't even learn to put eyeliner on until I was 19. And here we are, half a decade later, and I can walk into a studio and write "165 pounds" on my audition form and have it not even appear unrealistic, but it's not good enough. They say the camera adds ten pounds, but really? People's damn brains add ten pounds, a layer of unattractiveness, and a layer of incompetence.
So here's to me as I embark on my journey. I plan to get a crappy but sustainable job that I don't completely abhor, work out five days a week (which I have been doing! When I got here I weighed 189), and hone my craft. Take voice lessons so I can be pretty bomb instead of squeezing by on natural talent and instinct and - dare I say it - looks, because what I REALLY don't want to be is one of those girls in the miniskirt who can't carry a tune in a picnic basket but looks like a model. And then, after all of this, I will rise to fame and glory and be on a stage with Meryl Streep and/or Denzel Washington and be best friends with Idina Menzel and have a secret love affair with Taye Diggs AND Idina Menzel.
Off to the gym I go. If I don't go back to bed first.
PS: There is an awesome article in the New York Times today about Valerie Jarrett, which you should all check out post haste. Maybe I should just be her when I grow up. I am already a pushy bitch, and it seems like actually understanding politics would be easier than losing 40 pounds.
