Gaga Love vs.The Cult of the Skinny

I'm not well. Really? Tell me something I don't know. Seriously, I'm in one of those moods... Capital C-O-N-T-R-O-L. 

It spells trouble.

Revisiting old territory is so tedious, don't you think? Like finding yourself back in some town you'd promised yourself you would never set foot in again. But I was born this way Baby... anorexic episodes and all and despite several years of strong recovery under my belt, that demon can still rear its ugly head. (Ironically,  I'm also a recovering compulsive over eater...  the two extremes used to keep me in the most unhealthy but life saving balance.)

Now, before we go any further. Please promise me you won't feel bad, and you won't worry about me. There's no need. The thing is I don't mind having this - this kink -  in my DNA. God makes no mistakes. Afterall it's been fertile creative ground ever since my first one woman show "There's Something in the Fridge that Wants to Kill Me!"

Do we have a deal? Then read on.

I know what's caused Control to take over: it was failing that exam. It ambushed be on Thursday afternoon. I was too full of anger, self-pity and frustration to notice it creeping up on me. What happened exactly? Chronologically: I failed the exam, ran some errands, didn't have lunch till 3 o'clock, over compensated with a HUGE bowl of pasta (more like two huge bowls of pasta actually), felt a bit stuffed afterwards, checked in the mirror that my stomach wasn't protruding too much to go to Zumba (it wasn't, well not if I sucked it in), went to Zumba, felt really unwell during Zumba like I was gestating a baby giraffe, skipped dinner, skipped breakfast the next day, went to another Zumba class, rushed around, had a smallish lunch... et Voila! before I knew it I was in the clutches of Control.

You have to understand, this is so unlike me: I like to eat! The more I eat, the more I want to eat. I can out-eat most people I know, and probably most people I don't know. I can carry on eating even on those rare occasions were I feel full. I find it incredibly hard to go without food. I don't understand people who claim they can forget to eat ... Normally, if it's past my mealtime, my entire being goes into spasms of panic and desperately tries to communicate in the most convincing and innovative ways that I am about to pass out, go into a coma and die of inanition. It will allow nothing or no-one to stand between me and my food. Beware small babies in prams and trespassers! I will show no mercy...

No amount of reasoning - or therapy will convince me otherwise. When-in-doubt-eat is my defacto mode, although, these days I can recognise the signs and activate my support system. Occasionally though, something unexpected (it can good or bad - I'm not picky) will occur to distract me long enough from my eating schedule. Once my being goes into fasting mode, something else takes over. Another version of me: tough, strong, indestructible. She feels no pain. She never fails. She excels. She used to be my best friend before I knew better. Under her influence, food becomes a bad thing. Food becomes the enemy.

But the craziness around the food is just a footnote, a symptom of the seismic shift that takes place in my head. In recovery, I can spot the change from miles away, even if it doesn't make it easier to reverse or avoid. But hey, at least I know what's going on. I watch it, powerless, like a movie audience watching the psycho killer creeping up on his victim: He's right behind you!

Under her influence, I become incredibly controlling of my environment, and everything has to be N-E-A-T. Because, as everybody knows, Neat is the next best thing after Skinny.

Let's talk about Skinny. Shall we? I've regressed to finding skinny alluring all over again. I find myself lusting after the skinny thighs of strangers on the street, the models at Paris Fashion Week and Lady Gaga's perfect behind in her latest video for Born This Way .

This is a slippery slope and I'd better watch out... But there is one saving grace. Let me tell you a secret: when Control takes over, my creativity suffers. And no matter how loud the call of the Skinny, the call of Creativity is always louder. Thank goodness Control makes me stiff when I dance and turns me into a terrible actor. I am so grateful for this emergency exit, this panic button, the very existence of this path back to normalcy, to the celebration of Life in all its glory including both the glamourous and the scuzzy bits!

I always know where to find that magic door, it's up and to the right, next to the golden laughing Buddha with his huge belly. All I have to do is push the door open, hum a bit of Lady Gaga for courage and inspiration, and step on through.

Just love yourself and you're set...

I'm on the right track Baby, I was born to be brave...

Going Native

I love my new job. Seriously. Well especially the bit about having to spend all this time in New York.

Life here is easy, you know? Just finished my grocery shopping and it's 8 o'clock at night and all the stores are open and they sell everything you could possibly desire or hanker after and then some. And people look happy, floating on a combination of contentment and a total absence of awareness of the outside world.

There's money here, lots of it. And a sense that if you work hard you'll succeed. No matter who you are or where you come from. There's a sense of expectation and of a greater purpose - we're all going somewhere on the great ship of life, and it's going to be great!

I find myself floating too, and smiling with a sense of relaxed detachment which is decidedly pleasant. But that could be the effect of the jet lag. I don't even seem to mind the prospect of having to work this Sunday. Do you think maybe they sprinkle prozac in the tap water in addition to the fluoride? Healthy happy teeth (oh dear... did I mention that my job involves working on a wellknown brand of toothpaste?) courtesy of the NY City Water Supply.

I don't know. But that's what happens to me every time I spend any length of time in the States (and I lived here for 7 years during my formative years). A kind of assimilation into the Borg of Capitalism.

In Europe, the sound of an American accent (usually from a whinning middle aged tourist complaining about things not being "like back home") can raise my hackles. Their politics appear simplistic if not downright bigoted. Their societal woes echo the final decades of the Roman Empire.

But hop off that plane, run the gauntlet of immigration, retrieve your luggage, brave the tedium of the queue (they say "line" here) for a cab (they say "taxi) into town, settle into your hotel room, unpack, take a shower, step out for a bite of dinner and presto! you're home. Except it's better than home. It's bigger, cheaper, with more options, and if you can't finish your meal, they'll give you a doggy bag.

I don't think it's universal. Two blocks from here I walked past a homeless woman who was crouching on the pavement. She seemed to be in opiate-induced semi coma. Her wordly possessions distributed into two of those stripey canvas bags. She held her hands out. Everyone ignored her. Not in an embarrassed I'd-rather-look-the-other-way fashion. No one seemed to see her. The invisibility of the dispossessed and the unlucky.

No wonder it's such a happy place. They can't see the monster within. Well, with the exception of Lady Gaga who embraces all monsters with gusto and generosity.

Me? All I know is that  - right now -  I'm feeling good.

The Birth of Venus and the Death of Peter Pan

Peter Pan is dead! Long live Venus! I think I may have finally caught up with myself.

Would you like me to expand on the topic?

They say (they who? I don't know: psychologists, people in white coats, scientists) that our self-perception trails our age by some 10 years. Never one to do things by halves, I think mine was trailing by some 25...if not 30! There were lots of clues: dressing like a pixie for starters, minimal make-up whenever I could get away with it, intense dislike of shopping for clothes, use of my higher pitch voice as default, marked preference for pop music aimed at 12 year old girls (Beyonce, Gaga, Shakira, Pussy Cat Dolls...and Britney Spears and everything in between), and a fierce resistance to anything that would label me as officially grown-up: driving the car regularly, allowing myself to be called "Tata" (no not tatas... Tata is the French word for Auntie), voting, and acknowledging an hour glass figure.

But no more! The watershed occurred last Friday.

Last Friday, I had some new headshots done for Spotlight, the casting website. They're pretty ego-bashing and vanity destroying  because in the UK the convention is that they should be unretouched, in black and white and you are expected to wear minimal make-up and look "natural" (the Americans in the Industry kindly refer to it as "the Freak show") Remember that issue of Harper's Bazaar with the supermodels wearing no make-up? Well you get the gist.

The photo shoot in itself is not that challenging. I mean, you can't see yourself! The crunch comes when you get the proofs... and are confronted with some 200 images of your face. And at first you don't recognise yourself (we forget that the right side becomes the left in the mirror...) and then comes the second shock wave: this is how other people see me?

...

The answer is usually "Yes!". "Yes that is how other people see you. Deal with it."

I like my pictures. They're rather nice. The photographer was lovely and very talented. His name is Vincenzo and I will be posting some of the photos as soon as they come back from the printers so you can judge for yourselves.

But that wasn't my watershed. I am used to having my photo taken. I am used to being filmed wearing no make-up and shot half naked with a wide angle lense... No, my watershed came when I realised looking at those proofs, that I was no longer 10 years old, or 15 or even 25. That I was a grown up woman. All grown up! And that if I didn't start living up to this grown up woman, dressing her like a woman, celebrating her (slender) hourglass figure with dresses and skirts and pretty tops, then I will end up looking like one of those really sad make-over cases that you see on telly. And I really don't want that to happen. I mean, would you?

So I'm making some changes. Considering using one of those personal shoppers/stylists at Selfridges. Making an effort. Wearing nail polish. Smiling at the sound of wolf-whistles. And celebrating all of my grown up birthdays to date in one go!

So it's out with the Covent Garden flower seller in My Fair Lady and in with Breakfast at Tiffany's. Or, I dare you!:  the fountain scene in La Dolce Vita...

Dressing up the Dolly

Last night, at the start of our rehearsal for DESIRE, the designer came to show us the set and to discuss wardrobe. His name is Mike Lees and he is extraordinarily talented as well as deliciously waspish. I didn't even mind that he turned down my request to be dressed in the white and red latex nun outfit that Lady Gaga sports in her latest video "Alejandro" http://ladygaga.wikia.com/wiki/Alejandro_(music_video) - without even considering it. As I said, he is fabulously talented and besides his idea for my outfit is WAY better. I'm not saying anything else about it. You'll have to come and see the show for yourselves. But WOW. If we (I) can pull it off. Everybody elses costume ideas are lovely but... that's all I'm saying.

Then rehearsal proper got underway. It was the three hander scene at the beginning of Act 3 which we hadn't worked on before. As always at the start of a session I felt slightly like a fish out of water, out of synch, just not very good. And then the magic started to happen, we worked the scene this way and that, stretching space and time, and all of a sudden: BOOOM! The text started to take on a completely different and far more exciting meaning. It came alive and we came alive and there it was... pure magic!

Still lots of work to do and choices to make but now we know what direction to explore for that particular scene.

So onwards and upwards. And wait till you see my outfit!