Pointless photo of the day:

Hey, look. It's my stylin' red boots again for no apparent reason.

I like the boots. I so very rarely buy colourful boots, you know.

I'm going to miss the stylin' red boots when they're gone.

And yes, this has nothing to do with anything. Except for the fact that I occasionally include pieces of myself in these exercises in pointless photography.

Call it pointless portraiture, I suppose.

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So. My day started off with an oh, hell (actually, it was more of an oh, something else but we'll recap my views on self-censorship in print another time. And yes, I do mean recap. I've blathered on about the whole thing many times on the old blog, so I can pretty much guarantee it'll show up here eventually). As opposed to yesterday, when my day started off with a did I really mean to set the alarm THAT early?

And yes, I did.

Anyway, I managed to get a program time confused in my own brain today (entirely my fault, and you don't hear me saying that often enough), so I had to scramble to get myself ready for something that I wasn't planning to have to scramble to get ready for.

And I don't care at all if that last sentence made any sense.

I don't like being rushed into programs. I'm always set up monstrously early, and it's not because I'm completely neurotic about last-minute equipment problems. Or at least it's not just because of that.

Actually, it's largely because of that.

It also, though, has something to do with the way I prepare myself. Interpretation has a lot in common with dramatic performance, or at least it does for me. I need time to get myself... oh, I don't know... if I said I need time to get into the character of myself as an interpreter you're all going to wonder just how mad I really am.

And shut up, world.

It's me in front of a group, yes, but it's most certainly a different me than the me who comes back to the office and snarks off at Wheat afterwards.

And both of those mes (me looks weird as a plural. I guess that should tell me something right there) are different than the me who shows up at my apartment later, or goes out with friends (I do too have friends. Didn't I already do the shut up, world thing? That's your second warning then), or hangs out at my father's place on weekends.

Yes, they're all technically the same person. I'm not exactly Sybil, no matter what people may tell you. I do, however, put different versions of myself out there for different occasions. Interpreter Me is one of them, and it (she? I suppose I shouldn't really refer to myself in neuter) takes a little bit of work to get going.

And the reason, you soon-to-be-declared-whackjob?

I'm shy.






Yep.

I've mentioned this before to the internet at large, but for those just joining the blatherage I thought (for whatever reason) you ought to know that this particular weirdo who grew up doing the amateur theatre thing, who's sang in numerous concerts over the years, who earns her living by making an arse of herself in front of large groups of strangers... is SHY. Shy, shy, shy, and spends an awful lot of time wondering how she ended up where she did and doing what she does.

I'll stop talking about myself in the third person now, if everyone's agreeable.

I'm by far not the only shy person in the world who lives by massive overcompensation, though. I think that if you really looked at the people you're surrounded by in daily life, you'd find out that a lot of the most outgoing or at least loud folks you meet are the ones who inside are actually hoping you don't notice how much more comfortable they'd be if there was only a handy hole nearby to crawl into.

The fun comes when shy turns itself into SOCIAL ANXIETY (yes, in big bold capital letters). It's amazing how many ways a person can find to turn down an invitation if one puts enough effort into it, really.

But maybe we'll save that for another time. I need to get back to work, and in less than an hour I need to put on the Interp make-up again.




What can I say? It's a living.

I wonder if Wheat would mind adding a hole to the office.