Alrighty. For those of you who don't know- you're welcome in advance- the sequel to the 2013 Richmond Theater Artist's Calender is currently in the beginning stages of production. We haven't decided firmly what this one will be titled as yet, but we have cleverly decided that "2014" will most likely be involved. So, keep your eyes open.
Step one doesn't ACTUALLY involve Scott. It actually involves Robyn O'Neill and I crouched over a wee, narrow black table in the back room covered in piles of Ginnie Willards's "Spring Awakening" homework assignments and four or five beagles. But, what doesn't.
But after you get past actual step one (and then step 2, which we're not going to get into but may or may not involve jumping on a trampoline wrapped in makeshift golden surfboard bat wings) and after you have sent a much-pondered-over message to all the (YES!) willing participants, you get on to the step about which I am about to tell you.
*Warning- I don't recommend this step for most people. Myself included.*
So this is what had happened. I get home from work. In a rage because of all these silly people who ALSO drive their cars on the road. Brett Ambler knows what I'm talking about. I get on the facebook (not to be confused with The Debra) to make sure it's still happening. It is. I yank on a pair of Spanx faster than anyone ever potentially has, decide it's ok to go out in my yellow tank top even though you can see one of my three black sports bras underneath it, and zip out the door. (Zipping partially obstructed by the fact that one cannot leave or enter my apartment without thoroughly kicking the door and groaning a lot.)
I start jogging immediately. This almost never happens. I usually wait for the jogging part until I am safe amidst the canopy of trees and carpet of goose poop at the Vitacourse in front of the Carillon. (Which yes, I realize isn't a WHOLE mile exactly because Joy Williams has told me so, but still.) This was IMPORTANT.
On my way I am honked at a good deal, which I ignore due to lack of knowing how to handle such a thing, and spend a lot of time observing my shadow. I observe and I think, "Shadow? You seem to have the sort of hips which shouldn't be moving this quickly down the road." But I'm probably wrong about that.
I pass the balance beam (which- you guys. I have only just discovered and feel pretty sure it's only recently been installed though I'm sure any of you people who are veterans of moving forward at paces faster than a snail have observed for years and years), which I never do. I always stop, and if no one is around, trot briskly up and down it and pause at both ends pretending to be Dominique Moceanu just like I used to do on my family's hearth in my American flag bathing suit whenever the Olympics came on. I cross the street. HORRIBLE DANGER NEVER CROSS THE STREET RIGHT THERE. There is a good chance you could be run over. By anyone. But a better chance you could be run over by Tony Foley because he lives nearby.
I adjust my pants and top. After all, I am going to workout (watch working out). I slog through the grass. I decide that passing through grass on foot is a level of activity higher than which I should be striving for. It's HARDER for some reason. My brother, Scott (the younger- more on the older soon) goes nimbly bounding through the grass when he runs. Like Bambi. Bambi before he got all sad about his mom X.
I crest the hill. I spy Scott's car. I continue cresting and then have to abruptly turn back mid-crest because I notice all the rusty iron bars which are waist-height and really more than I'm willing to deal with right now. I find a hole in the fence. I look over at the dog park. Nope. Don't want to go there.
I rapidlydescendthehillyouknowthathillbackstageatthedellwhichissurprisinglysteep.
Figuratively, there was a tumbleweed. I think people might be intimidated by WHAT WAS HAPPENING.
But there- on the Dogwood Dell stage, with approval from on most high, I might add- were Scott Wichmann (the older Scott brother of which I spoke) and Matt Bloch (who is, as far as I know, of no relation to me).
I say, "Hello! this looks just like a TV show!" very boisterously, but then immediately realize my statement has not had the desired effect of greeting anyone as since Monday morning at 7 A.M. I have been thoroughly unable to speak. No matter. No matter until next Saturday, anyway. And we'll cross that vocal rehearsal when we come to it.
Scott has assembled his laptop at downstage center. Also some of those little tiny box speakers the size of baby fists. But they are adequately loud. Matt and Scott are already sweating (dramatically) so I put down Adam Dorland's sunglasses (which yes, I still have and I'm pretty sure you told me I could keep them, which I will even though they are too big and slide down over my nose) and my ipod (which, Eric Stallings- I really appreciate the earbuds you gave me on the EL three years ago but I'm gonna need some new ones) and fall into place behind Scott. Stretching is apparently happening. Stretching is easy for me. Always on the V-sit in high school I achieved Presidential Level. Nevermind that on all the other events I achieved challenged gopher level.
So we're stretching, I'm observing the boys' sneakers- very fancy- and then what to my wondering eye should appear but Josh Marin! With his spiffy fit rear!
Josh rolls up on his bike. Dismounts. I immediately (and frustratingly silently) get cranky because his shoes are WAAAAY better than any of ours. He descends the stairs. Removes his shirt. While the rest of us continue to lean over and contemplate our shin bones with peaceful feelings (or whatever the hell this man on Scott's computer is telling us to do), I contemplate why in the world Josh Marin has attended this gathering. This gathering is being held so the men who will be featured in the calendar (NEVERMIND WHY I'M THERE) can perform the INSANITY workouts together and get into bangin' good shape and be- as I noted hoarsely post-workout - all oily and bumpy for their respective photo shoots. Josh is in the calendar (almost typed Joseph- Joseph Papa- you'll have your own calendar, I feel sure), but that can't be it. Then, BOOM! I realize. Josh has graciously attended this session of exercise to demonstrate for us what we all WILL look like after ninety days of intense physical activity and healthy diet. Josh is not a bad looking chap. Plus he owns lots of lime neon items.
I scratch out, "This is easy so far!" Scott ignores me. Scott does not usually do this. I feel Scott has done this because he knows exactly how wrong I am about to be. Ford Flannagan- I know you will enjoy knowing that he was CORRECT.
So turns out, all we'd done so far were the warm-up stretches. Whatever. Then some invisible boisterous man from the laptop whom we cannot see due to the glare of the sun and the glare off Josh Marin's pectoral muscles informs us that we are about to "begin basketball drills." I think of commenting that none of us have a basketball. Oh well. Cannot comment ANYTHING.
And then. THEN.
Then we start actually exercising. Suddenly we are pretending to be on football teams and taking those little mincing steps over to the side and touch the floor and then over to the other side and touch the floor. I quickly discern that this may be tiring, so I stop and stroll up around the Dell looking for a water fountain. When I return, all three boys are much sweatier, but still suffering along silently. So I lay on the floor and commence my crunches. Now. Norman Payne, Ali Thibodeau, David Janeski and Colin Israel- FOR THE RECORD I have been performing my crunches on a large inflatable (stolen - thanks Mom, I guess it's not stolen if I asked for it) ball. But this begged exception. I do those. The boys are still skipping around and dumping 2-liter (no kidding) bottles of water on their faces. This may have been done for dramatic effect. The invisible man on the laptop keeps telling everyone to "TAKE BREAKS AND CHECK YOUR HEART RATE!" I assume this is to see if there still is one.
So this goes on for awhile. I lie on my back on the stage and stare up at the catwalk/grid. Remember that, Michael Glazer and Riley Koren? I note that there is a hole. And also a notably thick piece of pink spike tape. I wonder, who had their mark like that up on the ceiling? I don't THINK they've done Mary Poppins here....
Meanwhile, the boys are doing GOOD THINGS FOR THEIR BODIES.
So, I'm figuring this has to wind down soon, and then I look up. Now- while this has been going on, packs of people on bikes, on foot, on Segues, have been stopping by at the top of the Dell to watch the proceedings. I'm sure they are wondering why three fit men are sweating and carrying on while one girl is laying in the floor pretending to be a ballerina. Plus, Scott keeps screeching "HOO-YA." But what I see this time is none of those things. It is an all white being. White shorts, white shirt, white head. The only thing I can think of which is all white like this is the abominable snowman from that Rudolph movie we all love. But I hesitate to liken Nick Aliff to that because that could be construed as negative. This was positive. It reminds me of the time when I glimpsed one of my dearest and best friends cresting that self-same hill after he'd been away for the summer at Tisch School of the Arts. Only in his case it was more Edward Scissorhands than the abominable snowman. I've never seen bangs like that. I don't UNDERSTAND how bangs like that are possible. But I'm impressed to this day. Anyway. Upon glimpsing Nick, I croak- again- "Late!" But no one hears me. I stop croaking. Nick joins us. Scott gives everyone a sweaty high five and then we all start doing this thing where we are sort of doing push ups and then pretending like we're gonna stand up and stop doing push ups but then changing our minds and deciding to do them some more. Over and over.
So then eventually the INSANITY is over. I don't notice exactly when this happens because by this time I have taken to doing tricep push ups on the gravel and trying to do splits on the guardrail about half a mile away.
Everyone except Scott falls in the floor. We disperse. Apparently this is happening again TOMORROW. Which I feel to be a little excessive. In the same way I'd feel it to be a little excessive holding Miss America pageants every weekend. But here we are.
This calendar is going to be awesome. Especially since this is only really day one. Keep yourselves posted.
