Nervous Eyelash Curling

The waistband of the itchy costume feels a bit too tight around your waist. You try to adjust it, but to no avail, so you collapse down on one of the tall stools. You are surrounded by the fifteen other girls in the dressing room, chattering obnoxiously away to each other, but you can barely hear them. You keep getting in your own head about the upcoming performance. You know you should be going over your lines or practicing your steps, but instead you are paralized in fear.

One of the stage hands walks down to the dressing room, dressed in all black, she calls out to all of you, ”Five minutes until curtain!” Your heart starts beating quickly in your chest. Some of the other girls follow the stage hand down the hall to the auditorium door to sneak a peek at the crowd. Judging by their stifled gasps, the high school musical is more popular than one would think. You continue to get more nervous as your pulse quickens and your stomach twists into a huge pretzel knot. 

You can't help but imagine all the things that could go wrong. A tiny voice in the back of your head keeps pestering you. Reminding you of very rare scenarios that are almost impossible, but not quite. What if your costume falls down in front of the whole audience? What if your voice cracks? What if… you feel like you might throw up. 

Someone must have noticed your paleing face because one of the dressing room helpers heads over towards you. She has kind eyes that are creased a little bit from the huge smile plastered across her face. She gives off a very motherly vibe, and you immediately take a liking to her, even though she hasn't even spoken yet. As she walks over and begins talking, you are almost too nervous to concentrate on her words, but she seems like she is genuinely trying to help you out, so you focus very hard to listen to her.

 “I'm Amy!” she starts. Her voice is high pitched and as chipper as her demeanor. ”Is this your first musical?” she asks. You nod ashamedly. ”Wonderful! High School is a great time to start theater!” in your head you silently disagree with her. Everyone else in the show had been self proclaimed theater kids since they were two. They know what it was like to perform in front of tons of strangers, or worse, people you know, whereas you have never sung for a crowd larger than about five, and that had been at dress rehearsal. But Amy gives off an aura that makes you want to believe her, so you continue listening. 

”I heard you practicing your lines at the dress rehearsal, you sounded great!” you can't tell if she really means that, or if she is just trying to keep you from tossing your cookies all over the art room carpet. It doesn't really matter to you though. You still can't untie the knot in your stomach. You manage a weak smile which you hope is enough to convince her to go away. She seems satisfied with herself and walks back to the rest of the moms. 

You keep fidgeting with your costume, tightening the straps then loosening them. Applying lipstick then wiping it off and trying again, as though you can do it any better than you just did three seconds ago, and curling the lashes you already curled three times with that painful plastic curler that just rips off the longer lashes. You know your lines well, but you still feel like you could forget them at any second for no reason at all. If just waiting for the show to start is so hard, how will you ever actually get on stage and perform?

Amy keeps glancing over at you from across the room, giving you encouraging thumbs up. She is nicer than your actual Mom. Oh my god! You totally forgot. Your Mom will be in the audience tonight. Your stomach does a triple backflip. You haven't seen her in months. You think you might be sick again. This makes the performance ten times more important. You know you shouldnt be worried about impressing a woman who has never been very present in your life, but you can't help yourself. Great. Just another weight on your shoulders for tonight's performance.

You stand up to chance peak at the audience from the hallway. You carefully place one foot in front of the other, studying the paintings by other students hanging on the wall. Afraid you might collapse at any moment, you hold onto the railings lining the hall. You get to the door and crack it open a bit, glancing in. Bad idea. A lump forms in your throat as you look out at the sea of excited parents, antsy little siblings, and worst of all, some kids you recognise from the hallways around school. Oh god. They are going to see you sing your solo and then you will have to see them for the rest of your highschool life. You rush back to the dressing room and bury your face in your hands, careful not to mess up your shabby dollar store makeup. It wasn't your fault that it was terribly applied anyway, your Mom obviously hadn't taught you how to apply it.

”One minute to curtain!” calls the same stage hand as before. The girls all excitedly stand at once, chattering as they stream towards the door, lining up single file. The skirts from the costumes brush together and girls desperately try to smooth out all the creases and crumbs from stress eaten granola bars. As the tap shoes tap loudly against the tile in the hallway, you suddenly feel a sense of calm wash over you. You know your lines, you know the steps, now is your chance to show everyone how good you are at this, and how much time you put into it. As you step up the dark backstage steps, and stream onto the stage with the rest of the class, the opening music starts and all your fears melt away, replaced by ambition to have the best show ever.