The Fast Change

I have always worked well under pressure. 

Until that stinkin' fast change. 

I have one verse of "76 Trombones" to accomplish my mission. Mission Impossible. 

For most people. 

Unless they're stinkin' Process Improvement Geniuses, like me.  Yes. That makes me a PIG.

First I need to climb down 3 steps on stage - in pitch black. Without tripping over my toga. Then I have to merge into a crowd of other actors, who are also rushing offstage (not unlike a Black Friday Frenzy.) 

After bursting free of the mob, I must race to where I've set my costume, remove my toga and put on a 45 pound marching band jacket. I have to roll down my marching band pants which have been cleverly hidden beneath my toga, replace the ivy on my head with a marching band helmet, grab my French Horn and run back to the wings of the theatre for the curtain call. 

Before the second verse begins. 

On my first attempt I missed my bow altogether (which is a real tragedy for someone like me). 

So I conducted a postmortem process analysis and determined that if I stealthily made my way down the stairs before the lights went out, and pre-set my French Horn adjacent to my band jacket, I could shave 17 seconds off the process. 

The second attempt was more successful, in that I did make it on stage for the bow. 

However, the silver chain on my hat was resting on my nose, and my band jacket was completely unsnapped. In fact, had it not been for my French Horn, I would have had a Janet Jackson moment.

 More process improvements were in order. 

The next day I removed my toga belt onstage, and, at the risk of causing permanent emotional scarring on my cast mates, I began to disrobe while running through the wings. I also abandoned any attempt at fastening my jacket (since the French Horn had been relatively effective at hiding the girls).

Except the director made an announcement that all helmets had to be secured in place. WHAT?  And the jackets had to be fastened. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

And perhaps I should bake a batch of cookies during the fast change while I'm at it. 

All was going well on the third attempt until I realized I'd forgotten to grab my French Horn. As I reached down to get it, my helmet fell off, taking my wig with it.  

My wig was also an issue on the fourth attempt; it catapulted off my head as I removed my toga... which led me to increase the size of the neck opening on the toga.  

Tonight was opening night. I was nervous, but confident. 

My French Horn and uniform awaited my arrival. I stealthily climbed down the stairs, and untied my toga belt. As the lights went down I bolted into the wings, pulling my toga over my shoulders. It slipped over my head without incident. I removed the ivy, rolled down my band pants, slipped into my jacket, strapped on the helmet, picked up my instrument and ran to the wings.

 With 2.5 seconds to spare. 

"Wait!" I said. "Let me take those cookies out of the oven."

Seventy-Five Trombones

I know you will find this difficult to believe, considering the depth of my nerdiness;  I was not in my high school marching band.

The reason was simple: our high school marching band did not include an organ.  (Apparently, marching band members are supposed to carry their instruments down the football field, and organs weigh too much.) 

Imagine!  All those years of organ lessons in the first grade wasted.

But you know what? 

I am so glad I never joined that marching band.

You know why?    

It's because we got our costumes for The Music Man on Saturday. 

And until that day, I had never seen a marching band uniform up close.  I had no idea marching band uniforms were thicker than my aunt's 70 year old draperies and could stop a bullet from 25 feet. 

I did not know the jacket alone weighed more than I do.

Plus, I never noticed all the hardware on the uniform.  Zippers, hooks, snaps, doorknobs. 

And the uniforms are made out of wool!   

Thick, scratchy, confederate soldier fabric.     

All I can say is we better have a lot of Fabreze in that Green room, because those suckers are going to take on a life of their own after a few shows under those spotlights. 

Oh, dear, I just remembered that we all have to carry instruments!

 I hope the director doesn't assign me anything heavier than a triangle to carry, or else I may just collapse into a pool of sweat and drown.

"Seventy-six trombones (gasp)...led the big parade (wheeze)....

with a hundred and ten cornets (huff...puff)....close at hand...(pant)

..."

Make that seventy-five trombones.