I’m losing my grip on the mystic art of stage managering; finding a 200 dollar shoe cabinet’s receipt and literally dropping a mannequin and smashing a hole in its head right after paying for it.
A friend told me with a concerned look, “I hate you for being a terrible stage manager, but it’s not your fault.” I blushed at the aptness of the description and proceeded to stumble over everything in the bump-in, holding the words dear. Humility, yes, but mostly discomfort at… at how dare my lack of experience endanger everyone’s enthusiasm and blood for Stage.
“Are you okay?” multiple people asked. With a grimace betraying my joke, I shimmied into the space below the sink to hear my heart pound my head, asking if all was for nought.
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