Oh, what a night we had at yesterday's opening. The house was packed with Public and Pub staff, lots of donors, a few friends, and a few stray members of the press. Mike was in fine form and the performance was electric. After having heard this monologue 37 times since it was born 4 months ago, it's been hard for me to come to recent performances with a fresh "beginner's mind."
But last night it was not a problem. I was there, and I was rapt, and Mike made me laugh and think and feel in new ways again. Lovely.
Also, I eschewed my usual no-nonsense Dansko clogs for ridiculously high black heels my much-sexier little sister had advised me to purchase months earlier, and I wore peacock feather earrings and painted my nails bright red between the matinee and evening performances. I felt good.
The after-party was terrific, and we closed the Pub down drinking with our crew and a few members of the Pub's waitstaff, with whom we otherwise never have a chance to connect. In fact, we were having such a good time, we all decided to head over to a nearby bar to finish the night off, and it was then, as we were leaving the lobby of the theater, glowy and triumphal, that I stepped incorrectly on the stairs and managed to twist the heck out of my ankle.
I come from a long line of fainters. Something about our low blood pressure, perhaps? I don't know. All I knew last night was that I was in serious pain and I was fighting for consciousness--the bleary vision, the sudden sheet of sweat, the mouth filling with saliva--and I managed to stumble out into the cool night air and lay my overdressed self down on the dirty New York sidewalk.
Someone brought me a napkin full of ice, someone else brought me some water, and eventually, we made it into a cab and home, where I admired my swollen ankle between teary applications of ice. I may also have made a few extremely dramatic statements about how when we are ill we are truly alone, and while it's easy to share in other people's joy, no one is ever willing to share in someone else's pain . . . (All while longsuffering M was fluffing my pillows and fetching me ibuprofen and water and placing the ice-pack exactly as I directed it.)
Today I called my doctor, whom I really adore. He's a rheumatologist, and he comes to see our shows, and he takes great care of me. He got me in for an x-ray right away and happily, there was no break, just a badly sprained ankle. So it's rest, ice, compression, and elevation for me for the next two to six weeks.
That, and finding new ways to be nice to Michael, who in addition to enduring last night's drama now has to take Baci on all his walks, at least for the next 48 hours. Sigh.