Many Me's

I remember those days when I was little and my Dad would tell me I was the prettiest little girl in the world. I believed him because he was my Dad and why would he lie to me and of course I was.  OF COURSE I was the prettiest girl in the world.  Until I found out I totally wasn’t.  Far from it.  This was crushing if only because the reality was delivered by that super cute boy who called me an ugly fart face. Stupid Rudy Sarchuk.

Anyway.

Whether I was the prettiest girl in the world in actuality didn’t really matter because my Dad thought I was.  That’s all that really mattered.  To be fair, my Dad didn’t spend his days building my ego to epic delusional proportions, he was being a Dad with his little girl.  It was pretty awesome, even though after those little girl days it took him almost 30 years to call me pretty again.  I guess, in a way, that’s pretty awesome too.

Anyway.

I’m thinking now what would have happened if my Dad was telling other girls that they, too, were the prettiest girls in the world.  Finding out that it was no longer just me.  I wasn’t the only one. I wasn't special or any great shakes.  In fact, there were many me's.  Monumentally crushing is what it would be.  

Dads would never do this, but other people can.  They have the power to build you into  something special and just like that beat it right back out of you.  You’re not all that smart or fun or pretty or special – did you really think you were?  You’re just like everyone else.  You?  Ha.  As.  If.  I suppose how much power these people yield depends on how much power we give them.  It only matters if they matter to us.  But they always matter to us.  That’s why it hurts.  Not because it’s true, because, really, we are all nothing special, but because we would all like to be something special for someone at some point.  But if there’s no vice there’s no versa.  So for every Dad, there’s a Rudy Sarchuk. It just seems these days there are far too many fucking Rudy Sarchuks.

Fail

Last week (okay, precisely13 days ago actually but really who is counting?) I auditioned for the Conservatory Program at Second City.  As per their website, the CON (as those in the know call it) program is:

“… an exciting journey of study through the Improvisational methods developed at the Second City over the last 50 years. It is a 12 month program that explores Improvisational performance and its use to create content. Conservatory students move through 6 levels of study (once a week, 3 hours per class for 7 weeks). Students will learn to re-improvise and to write on their feet. Upon graduation, Conservatory students will have created an original Second City style revue with original sketches, songs and monologues.”

The Creative Team is basically forming a cast of 12 students, picked from about 50, who work together on a show for a year. The prospect of this is scary – 12 strangers forced to bond and build something from nothing, using only their wits and smarts - but also incredibly rewarding.  I want in.

So, audition I did.  The audition itself wasn’t hard.  Simple exercises I’ve done in class a zillion times.  But of course they don’t go the way they do in your brain.  What does?  I’ve prepared myself for anything (mainly a big NO) and thankfully, being the reigning Queen of the One Date Wonders, I can completely deal with rejection.  I am hard.  I am tough.  And I became this way by developing my own Defense Strategy Manifesto.  Read and Learn, Grasshoppers.

I Cope, Therefore I Am

Get it Out of Your Head

This never works.

Undermine The Shit Out of It

Who the hell wants to get into CON anyway?  It’s so lame.  So much work.  For what? Have you seen some of the people that get in?  They suck!  The new cast is terrible – who’d want to play with them?! 

Make Crap Up

This is a good one.  Like pretending the guy you really dig but doesn’t dig you is gay.  I heard that the CON program is actually a front for Scientology.  No jokes. 

Downplay Your Desire

So, yeah, I just auditioned because I had some time to kill.  No big deal.  (My shoulder hurts so much from shrugging I think I need to go to physio.)

Create a Cult of Lunatics (that you are not part of).

What a bunch of hipsters.  Can you be too cool?  Get jobs people!  Must we be ON all the time?  Is it possible to have a real conversation?!  We do not need to be funny and witty and wry all the damn time!  What is with your hair?!

Suck It Up, Fucko

And when all else fails, we have honesty.  I want this.  But we know that want isn’t enough.  Not in this cold hard world.  You need talent and luck and the stars need to align just so, but mostly you need talent.  Am I good enough?  Some days I think “hell, YES” and other days I think “man, do I SUCK”.  So, we wait and I’ll put on a resilient big smile face when I get the news because that’s just what’s done.  Dealing in general is what sets you apart.  If I know myself, I know I’ll be bummed for a bit (a long bit) and then I’ll pick myself up and try again.  And maybe, just maybe, in a semester or two my want will match my talent.  Here’s hoping.

So, yeah, I didn’t get it. Whatevs.  Seriously, who wants to hang with a bunch of hipster Scientologists for a year anyway?

Belong

Most of us spend a great deal of time looking for our place in the world.  This starts pretty young and often times lasts quite nearly forever.  If you’re lucky, your family provides this feeling of acceptance but ironically when you’re growing up they are the last people you want to get it from.  Growing up Greek-Life-Large in Whiter-Than-White-Bread Etobicoke was tough.  Fine, fine - not Crips vs Bloods tough but tough enough for mild, suburban Toronto.  We were the strange Greek family with the impossibly long name who spoke really loud but were never fighting in a language no one understood.  My brother and I could never understand why we never had lunches of  Kraft Dinner, but instead a strange concoction of scrambled eggs & french fries  We were so hard done by.

It’s really unnecessary to dig deep into these feelings of odd man out.  Look no further than the monstrosity of this name of mine:  Olga Constantopoulos.  Really?  4 + 15 = 19 letters of torture.  Spelling it, pronouncing it, spelling it again.  Only now can I be somewhat positive and thank it for my above average spelling skills and mildy annoying over-enunciation tendencies.

How in the world do Greek parents name their child Olga?  How does anyone name their child Olga?  How can you allow your child to make their way in the world by conjuring images of husky weight lifters from the Eastern Bloc, so mean, so stern? Sadly, we do have much in common:  grunting during any forms of physical activity; frizzy hair and disproportionate sized-thighs (one set filled with muscles, the other, Menchie’s) – there is nothing like projection.  Aside from all that, it’s just odd and nowhere was this more felt, by me anyway, than those kitschy touristy kiosks where everything you every thought you wanted has your name on it.  Well, not MY name.  YOURS for sure.   I’d wander and turn the stile hoping that after a Norman and before an Olivia would be me – an Olga to take home for my own.  Never if ever. 

I stopped looking ages ago. Who needs that stuff anyway! I’ll order my own personalized everything, thank you very much!  And I do, way too much! But you know, sometimes you just wander and you find yourself in front of a turnstile and you think, ah, what the hell, let’s feel like an outcast again.  Until, one day, you find this:

Is it more perfect that it’s Harry?  Of course it is.  Is it silly and childish that as soon as I saw it I ran over to my brother and he said “Olga, that’s so cool I’m buying it for you.”  Of course not.  He understands. 

Your family always does.