Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

I’ve had my time on stage: as a musician in large groups, as a conductor, as a soloist. Thankfully, most of my performances received applause and appreciation, but I’ve had my share of jeers, sniggers, and marks low as well as high.

The greatest accolade, however, the most palpable roar of approval ever sent my way, came the day I was wearing a tutu.

It was a lesson in adaptability, a case of accepting the inevitable and changing plans.

As regular readers know, I am 100% introverted; being the center of attention is way outside my comfort zone. With this fact on the table, a career as a performing artist might seem an odd choice, but trust me, it wasn’t a conscious one. When you’re handed a violin in 4th grade, you’re really only thinking about avoiding getting beaten up in the churchyard, not decades down the line when you’ll be performing in front of large crowds of strangers. Besides, for most kids, a decided lack of aptitude precludes such concerns. However, I was un/lucky enough that, eventually, I did have to worry about it.

Before every (and I mean every) performance, I suffered from “tuxedo bowels,” where your intestines tie themselves in knots  and nausea washes over you in waves. Creating music, though, the construction of that sonic gift, it was worth it. Frankly, I would have been happier if we never had an audience, but that wasn’t part of the package.

I reacted to this stage-work by avoiding all other forms of attention. It’s why I rarely went to writing/book conventions, why I dislike cameras pointed in my direction, and why I hide here in my office typing a blog that is both personal and anonymous. Here, you can see me, but you can’t really see me. Even today, I tend to maintain a low profile. I’m quiet in a crowd. I value the decorous over the demonstrative.

And so, one evening, back when my hair was dark and my waist was narrow, I put on my standard camouflage of black turtleneck, slacks, and shoes, and we drove down to Kane Hall at the UW for a performance by a duo of jugglers. Kane isn’t a large hall, seating a shade over 700, but it was packed as we took our seats in the center left, near the aisle.

The show was captivating, with the two gentlemen exhibiting feats of both contact- and more traditional toss-juggling, communicating a storyline all without use of the spoken word. We all eagerly expressed our awe and amazement, and the hall filled with gasps, laughter, and applause, at least until the two performers stopped, shaded their eyes, and began looking out into the audience. Any laughter heard then was wrapped in nervousness.

One of the artists scanned in our direction, stopped, and pointed.

At me.

He came down from the stage and, proving that even the most fervent prayers are often useless, plucked me up by my sleeve. A wave of relief swept the audience as he escorted me to the aisle and up on stage. Relief morphed into delight as my escort handed me a classic tutu made of pink tulle and bade me—via mime—to put it on.

I’d had this nightmare before. It never ended well.

I looked to the audience for support; they were no longer on my side.

I stepped into the tutu and pulled it up to my waist.

Now the second artist came up, offered me a pair of finger cymbals and, just in case I was ignorant of their purpose, demonstrated the proper way to strike one against the other to produce a surprisingly loud ting that could be heard at the back of the hall.

I took the cymbals and, at the artist’s encouragement, tested them out.

Hold for applause.

Then came the instruction. The two men mimed how they would perform a set of maneuvers, tossing objects between them, at which point it was my task to prance around in a circle between them and finish with a flourish and a ting of the cymbals.

There was hooting from the back of the hall. I think it was meant to be encouraging. Maybe not.

Ready? they asked me silently. I shrugged, and we were off.

They juggled. Objects flew. I moved through the prescribed route—my gait admittedly closer to a skip than a prance—and ting went my cymbals, but barely had I finished the flourish when the two men stopped and came toward me with silent complaint. One mocked my performance, moping his way through the circle I’d just covered, his expression a mix of moues and eye-rolls, exhibiting his dissatisfaction with my lackluster attempt.

I was directed back to my starting mark and they took their positions. We were going to do this until I got it right.

Glancing out into the dark, I saw my wife, hands covering her mouth, though whether she was hiding her horror or her laughter, I could not be sure.

It was then that I had a long conversation with myself. It lasted all of five seconds, by the clock, but it was a long conversation. I enumerated the reasons I was hating this, made vows never again to sit in the first twenty rows of any theater, reconsidered many of my life choices, and wished for an earthquake to swallow me up. I evaluated the situation, considered various plans of action, categorized each by expected outcome, and compared the relative fallout from loss of dignity versus humiliating retreat.

Ready? they asked.

In the end, my internal decision was: Fuck it.

The juggling restarted. They gave me my cue.

I didn’t skip. I didn’t prance. Instead, I summoned up every vestigial muscle memory from of every ballet class I’d ever taken and, with port de bras set in first position, I strung together a series of alternating pas de cheval, leaping through my circular route, ending with a ting from the cymbals and my feet in B-plus.

There was a split-second of stunned silence, and then a cheer of joy that hit me like an rogue wave. I accepted it with grace and appreciation, returned to my seat (sans tutu), and tried to achieve invisibility.

The event proved to be a turning point (no pun intended), as it taught me that changing plans is often necessary and not always a bad thing. Admittedly, it took a while for this lesson to really sink in and (more importantly) for me to put it to practical use, but now, many years later, I’m finding that flexibility to be a true asset.

This week, for instance, we trashed our long-anticipated plans to drive down south and visit friends and family, spending time in San Francisco and along Oregon’s southern coast. The delta variant and the limitations it brings for activities demanded we reconsider our plans. Sure, I was disappointed, and I took no joy in telling folks we weren’t coming down after all, but not everything goes as we want it to. Besides, it’s not forever; it’s just for now.

Other plans are being redrawn, as well, from household projects to weekend plans.

For me, this new(ish) adaptability brings a feeling of freedom. Naturally, I still take into account how changes to my plans will affect others, and I’m not advocating that we ignore our responsibilities, but sticking to a plan simply because you’ve got a plan is foolishness. If you’re going to stick to Plan A, make sure you have good reasons for doing so. Otherwise, maybe you should just say Fuck it, and move on to Plan B.

k