In a book I recently read, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, Don Miller talks about a guy he knows who keeps a notebook with him and writes down everything that he can remember. All the time. He wants to record his memories because otherwise he’d forget, he says, and I get that. Because although it might not be so bad to forget that time you waited at the DMV for an hour with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the security guards urging you to please stay in line! and then next! to the person who is unfortunately 50 paces in front of you, it could be sad to forget that time you first met your little niece exactly eleven years ago. And when you walked outside from the birth center to the car that night it looked like the stars had been polished and buffed to the point where God could see his face in them, the newness of that little girl in your life was so radiant.

And I guess that’s why pictures are nice too.

They are memories in colors and stills.

Like, I hardly ever think about Japan. I mean, I do occasionally use the emoji app on my iphone, but that’s about as much mental energy as I give to anything Japanese lately. Call me present minded, I guess.

But I look at this picture and suddenly I cannot deny that I’ve been there.
Walking in a bamboo forrest that dwarfed me.

I remember the way the light was barely lasting, the sun was setting and couldn’t quite reach around the bend in the road anymore.

And no matter what it feels like sometimes, it’s good to remember that there are some things that are true. It’s good to write them down, to take pictures of the love you’ve shared and the places you’ve walked.

I’ve been to Japan.

I’ve swam with manatees.

But more than anything else, I love and I am loved and I have so many memories that can be given as conclusive evidence to support this theory.

But I’ll still keep writing it down, because I don’t want to forget.

Yeah well, about that.

I started feeling something.

A lot of something. And the closing show tonight was amazing. Emotional. Exhausting. Beautiful. Magical. So sad. And so good.

But before that, I had a moment with some of my favorite ladies in the show. They are kind and safe, funny and kindred spirits. They love their men, respectively, and know what it is to begin to hate the phone because no, it’s not enough, it’s never enough when it comes to sharing your life.

We had already finished our first show of the day and proceeded to share a cast dinner in the theater when I quietly stole away to the piano. After about a half hour or so I hear a gentle knock on the door, and they walk in. Three beautiful, tiny women. Seriously, they range from 5’1 to 5’3 on a good day and when we are all together I find our height differences so funny. They ask me if they are bothering me and of course I say no. They’ve yet to bother me, in fact. They tell me that they could hear the strains of my playing from the dressing room and felt like they needed to be with me on this last day listening to the music.

Mindy pipes up, Can you play that song? The one you wrote about us?

Sure, I say, hoping that I remember all the words and chords cause it’s been a while.

I play and as I do, I start to feel it. This great sadness. This acceptance of our parting. This breaking up of such a sweet community. I play that song and then I play another and by the time I finish we are just crying and so we talk. We share and are real and it’s like therapy only nobody needs to pay anybody and nobody gets kicked out after fifty minutes.

It’s cathartic and broken and honest and I think we love each other maybe even a little more when we finally get up to ready ourselves for the last show.

But first I take some time to be sentimental. I walk on the stage and gaze out. I go over to our quick change station and see all our headshots lined up and ready to be put in dance bags at the onset of the show.
They are just faces, black and white features on cardboard, but to me, they are so much more. The kind of bond you create with people you’ve lived, worked, laughed, and literally been with for over a year and a half is staggering. It gets to be a part of you without even realizing it and suddenly you leave and you wonder at the bereft feeling that is left; you feel the ghost pains, so to speak, of the missing part and you might as well get used to it, I guess. It’s gonna hurt for a while. But it’s a good hurt.

I don’t think I’ll miss the gold hat so much.
It’s pretty heavy and you can pop yourself in the forehead pretty badly if you’re not careful. But after you do it once, you learn to be careful. Believe me. I don’t think I’ve done that since opening in Denver last April, actually.

But I will miss what it means to wear that gold hat. The fact that you’re in a show. The great story of it, the transformation that happens when you step on that stage. A friend of mine who has a resume that would impress God always says something whenever she leaves a show: If I am lucky enough to do another show…And there’s a humility in that that I like. True, she’s so talented and beautiful and accomplished that come on, she’s gonna do another show. But the truth is we don’t ever know, not really. Which makes me grateful for the job when it happens.

And here I am, as Kristine for the last time.
At my station. Which no, is not the neatest on the block, but neatness has never won anyone a Tony or a Grammy or even an Emmy, for that matter.

Though I am looking forward to going home again. And keeping a home. Even keeping it neat. A girl can learn, right?

An A Chorus Line sweatshirt, that is.

There’s nothing like an actual deadline to make you get something done. The whole time I have been on this tour I’ve been meaning to get a sweatshirt, but when the notice went up that Saturday, Nov. 14th would be the last possible day to buy merchandise, I got myself to the merch table.

Um, on Saturday, November 14th. You didn’t think I got there earlier than absolutely necessary, did you?

And now I am wearing my show swag and trying to figure out what the closing of this show means. And honestly, I don’t think I totally get it. I mean, my friend told me that as an actress, being employed gives her so much confidence and now she’s really gonna miss that and I get it. Another friend has mentioned that this is a family of sorts and where else are such good friends literally a hotel room away? Or in my case, in your hotel room? And I get that too.

But it’s weird, the last two times we’ve had cast change overs and people leaving, I cried on stage like I was reading for Mary Magdalene at the foot of the cross in Jesus Christ Superstar. And though I was probably perplexing the poor audience over just what, exactly, was so sad about Sing!, I still just couldn’t. Get it. Together.

But these last few shows, I’ve felt quite literally nothing.

And my friends are crying all around me, on stage and in the dressing room, and I am feeling unbelievably emotionless.

Maybe even a little happy to get on with it already, if I were totally honest.

And now my roommate just told me, Oh my God, Jess, it’s officially November 15th, closing day! And yes, we squealed together and yes, it’s daunting, but I remain just fine. Maybe it’s because this time I am finally going home; I am not being left behind and saying good-bye to friends. Well, I am saying good-bye to them, but it’s different this time. The whole shebang is closing and we are all off to pursue our dreams, our lives, our relationships even further.

We’re all off to light a fire under whatever it is we had to put on hold while gallivanting around the globe in leotards and jazz pants.

And somehow I see that this is a good thing. It’s gotta be. I know it’s what I want; I can’t do this show forever, nor do I want to. There are so many other projects I want to tackle, so many other people I want to see on a more regular basis (hi, drew!).

So yeah, it’s the end of the line.

The end of this line, at least.

And thank God it is.

But gosh, it’s been one heck of an incredible journey.

And who knows? Maybe I will have to admit that in our closing performance I was all tears and mush and sniffles and you guys will be laughing as you read it cause you knew that would happen all along.

Do those words incite the same kind of excitement in you as they do me?

And no, I am not talking Christmas here. Not yet, anyway.

But it’s on parr with that, I’d say–the greatest of holidays.

It’s time to go home.

To box up my stuff, tape it up tight, and mark it with my name and address.

To send it back to where it belongs and more importantly, where I belong.

And just looking at all this stuff makes me so happy.
Actually, I was rushing to finish boxing up my trunk during the Paul and Cassie scenes tonight. So there I was in my leotard and fishnets, knee deep in packaging supplies. And after getting all my stuff into five boxes, I was faced with the monumental task of carrying them to the company manager office, all the way on the other side of the theater. And then there was the added hassle of my rib and how I am not really supposed to be lifting much.

But that’s when I got creative.

And found a dolly.

Perfect.
And so I rolled my boxes from one side of the theater to the next, making more than a few people laugh at me along the way.

And if you know who said that, you get 5 points to be used at your discretion.

5 whole probably useless points, people. Now THINK.

Okay, I will, I said nonchalantly, most of my energy going to making that large J followed by a lot of squiggles and the even larger L followed by yet more squiggles. Yes, my signature needs work. But it’s not work I like to do, not when there are 100+ posters a pop yet again staring me in the face.

But Joey was not taking no for an answer, Now. You need to read it now.

Well I’m busy doing something for people with AIDS, what are you doing? After informing me that he had already signed those posters and done his part, I decided to humor him and read what had gotten his attention.

I present: fan mail.

Well not exactly fan mail, I guess.

Okay, not even close.

Here goes…

So there it is. Yowza. I can maybe see where she is coming from, and I don’t know–perhaps somebody she loved passed away from lung cancer, making any smell of smoke instantly give her a visceral reaction that encompasses all.

Or maybe she just doesn’t get the idea of story.

Of characters that make that story come to life.

Or of the fact that we are depicting a story that involves dancers in the seventies and let me tell you, a lot of them smoked. In fact, a lot of them did a lot more than smoke and the fact that one lone cigarette (which is herbal, by the way, and if anyone cares at all) made it into a scene is pretty tame in comparison to what could be there.

Not that I am saying that cigarettes are cool or good for you or that I am buying them for my nieces and nephews for Christmas. No, I actually hate the smell too. But this cigarette is a part of Sheila’s story. She’s a stressed out, jaded, aging dancer who’s talking about the business and how precarious it is. She lights up. Because it’s part of her character. It’s what Sheila would do.

Therefore the actress who plays Sheila does it.

See, story–any good story–is not just about perfection or always making the right choices or how one day you baked a cake and then walked your dog, though those are two perfectly lovely things to do and if you ever want to bake a cake for me and then invite me to walk your dog, I am totally in. But story involves conflict. It’s creating scenes that are memorable. Sheila lighting up during the alternative scene–actively portraying her need to de-stress in what is supposed to be the great conflict or climax of A Chorus Line–makes sense. And obviously, it’s memorable since it’s the freaking only thing this young lady even mentioned to anyone who asked her about the show: that cigarette.

Even the Bible is totally offensive in some places. Because it tells a story of humans and let’s face it, we mess up. A lot. But, it’s memorable. It’s not tame-not at all–but it sticks, because the stories talk about everything, the good and the bad, making it authentic. It tells about the screwing up and the grace that comes afterward.

And well, the cigarette? It’s a part of the story that we are telling every night.

And no, the point of the cigarette is not that we think everyone should smoke because shriveled lungs are so cool; the point of the cigarette is to show that Sheila, like all of the rest of us, is scared. Worried about the future. Wondering where the next job, the next paycheck will come from.

And honestly, simply talking about it is something, yes; but there’s power in showing it.

And come on, ONE cigarette at the very end of the show made her forget about the hilarity that is SING?!?!

Okay, just joking.

But seriously, a lot of other good stuff goes on during that two hours; I have a hard time believing it was all trumped by that cigarette. It must have been the fact that it was herbal–those things pack a punch.

Even as I type this, it’s hard to really comprehend. Already, there are some misty eyes in the cast as I look around the stage during the show. If the last few times we’ve had closing performances for cast members are any indication, I will probably cry like a baby at this final closing.

But then again, this time I am more than ready to go home.

Maybe that will make a difference.

Maybe.

But on the other hand, as much as we all talk about what a small world this business really is, how we’re gonna see each other in New York, attend each other’s openings and all that, this is never going to happen again.

This group of special people. Traveling together. Working together. Laughing together. Commiserating over how ridiculous an eleven 0′clock matinee really is and come on, Equity, we don’t even get overtime for this breakfast show? Crying together. Divulging to each other that things aren’t good, that life has recently become the kind of story over which you shake your head, you wonder how the heroine is ever gonna pull through, and yet you all pull on your gold hats and sequined tights and you smile for the audience and you sell it anyway. Again and again, you sell it and find some reprieve as you get lost in a different story on stage every day.

There is a bond that forms slowly, gradually, and after a while you realize that you love these people. After all the early morning bus calls to get to the airport God only knows much earlier than ever need be; the three weeks spent in Detroit that you managed to make fun despite it all; the notes, endless notes; the first wives club in which we all desperately miss our husbands, respectively; and please let’s not forget Japan because that happened–after all this, something has happened and it’s left a mark.

A good mark.

I will always love A Chorus Line.

But part of the reason that I don’t want to re-sign this time is that I don’t want to try to build all that with a new group of people. I don’t want to look around and see the same costumes on the wrong people. I don’t want to start over. I’m good. It’s time to move on.

And I have 28 more shows to keep getting used to the idea of truly moving on. Another show. More gigs. Trading in The Alliance and creating a better, stronger alliance with my Drew.

It’s time.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t cry like a baby when the time really does come, you know.

But until then, 28 shows, folks. 28 shows.

But I just read in a magazine that “people who tell others their newest goals too soon often end up not doing them. It is better to start working on the goal, and after having done it consistently, talk about it.”

Okay.

So I am not going to tell you that it’s a goal of mine and you may or may not someday see a picture on this blog of a pillow that I made.

And I am not wondering if my mom might lend me her sewing machine.

And actually making a pillow may or may not be a goal of mine.

I guess I’ll just keep it to myself for now.

So instead, let’s talk Christmas.

Too soon?

Okay, we’ll table that. Even though I have been listening to some Christmas music. But it was really just one song, an original song from Over the Rhine’s Christmas album, and it doesn’t even sound very Christmasy at all, more wintry and encouraging, so don’t get all we haven’t even had Halloween yet, let ALONE Thanksgiving!!! on me, okay?

Cause wintry and encouraging music is approved for listening all year round in my book.

But fine, let’s talk…2009.

Cause it’s already September of this year. And almost the end, at that. I know, I know, where did the time go? I know that I spent a lot of it doing step, kick, kick, step, kick, touch and if that means nothing to you, than maybe you should see A Chorus Line. Or just follow those verbs verbatim and see what you get, cause that could be pretty funny.

Maybe as funny as the time my brother Jase bragged to me and (his girlfriend at the time but is now his wife) Darby that he could definitely kick this little good smelling decoration that was hanging from my parents’ kitchen ceiling.

Okay, Jase, let’s see it, we encouraged him, only too thrilled to sit back and watch his bravado meet its match in the form of EXTREMELY TIGHT HAMSTRINGS.

And now I’m gonna brag and say that I was right. He lunged in preparation, his eye on that prize hanging from the ceiling, so perfectly kickable, right?

Well, no.

His leg flew up in the air with all the speed of a ticketer at the beach once your car has been parked just one minute past the time you’ve paid for and what about grace, Bethany Beach, what about grace?!?! But it was the leg still on the ground that failed him.

Or maybe it was his sock, that slippery sock that never stood a chance against the hardwood floor.

Because his socked foot slipped out from underneath him right as his hamstring alerted his airborne leg that it had gone as far as it could, really, and with a great and glorious crash the poor guy fell backwards.

And no, Darby and I didn’t laugh.

At least not until we made sure he was still alive, that is.

And no, he didn’t ever kick that little decorative thing that was hanging from my parents’ kitchen ceiling.

But I think what he did end up doing might have been even better. At least for us.

But, 2009.

Can you believe it’s September? The kind of September that’s almost October, albeit?

And speaking of goals, or uh, not speaking of goals, rather, are there any goals that you’d like to accomplish before this year goes by?

Other than the sewing thing, which I am so not mentioning here, as per the instructions of that magazine, I also want to book another project. One that doesn’t involve something that sounds a lot like A Shmorus Shline.

Not that I am not grateful.

But it’s time for a new job, and that makes me pretty excited.

So that’s a goal of mine.

Okay, your turn.

Not only does my current toilet come installed with a bidet, it also has a seat warmer.

Enough said.

Second, this whole earth quake situation has me mildly freaked out. Well, if the realization that you really can do nothing about it but you’re still apprehensive can be called freaked out.

See, the thing is, I got it the first time, Japan. If you’re trying to impress a girl from Pennsylvania with your ability to roll up the earth and make it seem like it’s not ground at all, consider your goal achieved.

And really, some might say that three quakes in four days might be overkill. Like you’re overcompensating. Are you thinking I might not notice how much of your sushi is slathered in mayonnaise if you keep the ground fluid? Are you thinking that a little tremble beneath my feet will keep me from running to the bathroom and spitting that mayo-slathered-sushi out?

If so, you’re wrong.

Cause I will not eat mayonnaise in a quake; I will not eat it in a lake; I will not eat it Japan-I-Am; I will not eat it anywhere.

I am exhausted. Completely drained. I have done four shows in 24 hours and have yet another matinee tomorrow. I got five hours of sleep last night and my show shoes feel like they simply must be mistaken for something else because surely those torture devices could not have been intended to actually be worn; not by a blue-blooded and voting American, not in a democracy, not by someone who naively thinks they are ideal for not only standing but also dancing.

Seriously, the pain in my feet have reminded me once again how awfully a foot can ache. On the break, I had sort of forgotten about all of that, which was nice.

Tonight we had dinner in a Mexican restaurant. In Tokyo, Japan. Six of us walked in, and upon taking our seating number, the hostess asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a table. Of course not, we said, and we were led to share the table with these two gentlemen.

We pretended that we weren’t taking the picture with them, but rather just with me and Brandon, but really I had instructed Sterling to please make sure she got our strange table fellows in the picture–and I obviously had to sidle up as close to them as propriety would allow.

The unfortunate part was that one was a chain smoker. As we were seated I assumed that they would be leaving soon, given that they had basically finished their meal, but no. Wouldn’t you know that they had so much to talk about, so much to smoke about, and so we shared this table for almost the entirety of the meal.

I wouldn’t have minded so much if it weren’t for the part when their stinky cigarette smoke kept wafting in my face. Like it was cute. Like it didn’t shrivel my lungs.

And a sweet Japanese woman convinced me to purchase some face wash that had, among other things, avocado and charcoal in it.
I tried it and so far, so good.

I also washed it off and am now completely ready for bed.

Thank God for this.