Tired Like They Talk About

I am so tired. Work, teach, rehearse until 11/11:30. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It wouldn't be so bad if the opera was going well. But it's not. Of course it's going better than one would imagine if one takes into consideration that it's led by a hostile, egotistical, 88 year old crazy woman (more about her later).

Each rehearsal my good humor and mild manner (ok, I may be pushing it a little far with that) are sucked out of me by the petulant diva tantrums, the cast continually forgetting the lines they've had for months, the revolving door of pianists who take their own tempos and step all over the nice, supposed-to-be-solo wind lines, and the endless shouting, shrieking by the blame-throwing (not to be confused with flame-throwing) conductor. It's like a variation on a theme of "Waiting for Guffman."

I try not to let it bother me, but it does. It, in turn, frustrates, amuses to the point of giddiness, and angers me. I try to not care, but it's impossible. I don't want to see the group die, and I hate watching it be run into the ground. You know that saying, if you love something, set it free, yadda, yadda, yadda, free, free, set them free? How do you get that general concept across to an octogenarian whose life has been dedicated to this little opera company, who I am convinced doesn't see herself as a day over 40, and whose stubborness and unwillingness to listen to reason (probably the very things that got her through life so successfully) are pushing the group she loves closer and closer to ruin?

Why do I do it? Why not just leave? Why put up with the verbal abuse, headaches, stress, and exhaustion? Why put myself out there, going above and beyond the call of duty to help organize things, recruit musicians, even work on the program and create a master list of performers?

I don't know. I just don't know. And *yawns like a baby hippo* I'm too tired to think about it right now.

Oh, bullshit. I do know. I admire the woman. I admire her tenacity, her energy, cherry-brown hair dyed within inches of its life, and all of her other meshiggas. I admire that she's taken this on (no matter how ill-advisedly) while her husband is in the hospital sick. I love that there's such an old-fashioned little musical company out here in the sticks doing real opera. I love the music. I love the strange little group of "regulars": professional musicians (with far bigger fish to perform with) choosing to be in the same boat as me, continually showing up year after insane year to put up with the endless rehearsals (both in number and in length), crappy pay, and stress. And if we don't do it, who will? Honestly? No one. When she asks us to jump, as much as we'd like to answer with a hearty "go fuck yourself!" we can't. We say "how high?" and go on to the next act.