Remote Anxiety

I'm currently in rehearsals for Gypsy. I play Electra, one of the worn out strippers whose gimmick is blinking lights on inappropriately appropriate parts of her body.

And I'm starting to get a bit nervous.

First there's the song, which is about an octave higher than I can sing. When I get to the part where I sing (and I use that term loosely) "I'm electrifying and I'm not even trying", the music director looks at me with pity. My cast mates have their hands over their ears.

Then there's the costume. Janet Jackson showed less skin in her infamous Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction. Add a pair of Barbie/stripper shoes to the mix and it's the perfect storm. The 4 inch heels cause me to angle precariously toward the audience, further precluding my propriety.

But my biggest fears surround the technical aspect of turning on the lights. And why? Because I will be using a remote control. Well...make that two remote controls.

Let me back up. My husband makes fun of my remote control prowess (or lack there-of). I don't understand why. Perhaps it's because I have to use reading glasses to change a channel. Or maybe he remembers the time that I brought a calculator on vacation so I could do some work, and how the calculator turned out to be a remote. "How can you possibly confuse a remote for calculator?" he asked. I made a quick comeback. "They're both rectangular and have numbers?"

Guess I told him. Besides, he's had a lot more experience with remotes than I have.

But I truly am a pathetic remote controller.

So when I found out that I have to not only use one but two remotes during my number I began to panic. I told the director that, sure, I'm an excellent multi-tasker, but asking me to work two remotes concurrent with singing, dancing, bumping and grinding may be beyond my abilities.

You know what she said? She said it might be funny if I pulled out the remote, looked at it and pushed the button.... in the middle of the song.

Really?

Well, how about if I pull out the remote, take my reading glasses out of my cleavage, and then push the button?

Or, why don't they further challenge me by asking me to enter a password, or maybe use a keypad like on my garage door? That might get a laugh!

I'll steal the show.