Hedda Dishes :: The Price of Being Fabulous
Hello, gentle Americans. God does not give you more than you can handle. I am not sure who said that, but I assume it was not someone who tried to squeeze a size 9 Jimmy Choo on size twelve feet. You can’t even conceive that kind of pain, unless of course you are Khloe Kardashian.
Lately I feel as if I am taking on too many projects, too many responsibilities. Coming from a girl who likes to lounge around till noon and then meet some girlfriends out for a late lunch, have a mani/pedi, then head over for a massage, my schedule lately is enough to exhaust even James Franco. Going from 0 to 60 puts quite the shock on ones body.
Funny thing is you don’t notice it until you’ve stopped for a minute. All of a sudden your arches start to ache, your knees (which normally could support a full grown man in heels) now start to wobble, your left hip has a dull pain, your lower back is sore and there is this strange twitch in your right eye. Perhaps it called getting older? Or perhaps age has nothing to do with age and it simply being a grown man traipsing around in high heels, corset and boobs that tip the scale at the weight of an Olsen Twin.
Jabbing a girl’s kidneys
Recently I had the pleasure of working with some amazing young dancers on a fabulous project. Right now I can’t tell you what that project is, but more will be revealed. They ranged from the ages of 20-27 and when we would sit around in the dressing room, waiting to be called on to the stage, they would share their aches and pains from their job and frankly I did not feel so bad about my aches and pains.
Every job has its share of physical problems regardless of age. Even sedentary people who sit at a desk all day staring into a computer screen get fat and develop back problems, their vision becoming impaired. But it is these maladies that connect us with our fellow workers, becoming our battle scars, which we can then share with our colleagues in arms. These on-the-job hazards allow us relate to one another, forming a deeper solidarity to which only people in this secret club can relate. Aching arches are not just aching arches; they are common complaints to be shared with our fellow comrades in the dressing room. Corset-boning jabbing a girl in her kidney is tolerated as a price of admission into a glamorous profession, as long as you can turn to the bearded lady next to you and say, "I think an internal organ has been punctured, but this show must go on!" Sticking one’s cock and balls up one’s asshole does not seem so odd and uncomfortable if you are a drag queen. If you were an airline pilot I would question your reasoning; unless of course you were a drag pilot.
Whether you are a construction worker, drag queen and accountant or pilot our differences are not so great. Each of us suffers for our art, takes a deep breath, complains to anyone standing next to them and goes on with their lives.