After all this time you'd think I'd have it licked. After the countless hours, not to mention dollars, spent on coachings, classes and preparation you would think I'd be beyond all this nonsense.
But no, I'm not over it. And it's the one thing keeping me from reaching my goals.
The Pre-Audition Freak-Out
I'm sure other actors experience the pre-audition freak-out, that feeling that all is chaos, but mine seems particularly acute.
This emotional lapse of reason gets me every time. Getting through it is harder than winning Survivor.
It goes a little something like this.
The start of the morning is usually smooth sailing. I have some coffee, watch a little Mike & Mike, and embrace the feeling of hope I have for a brand new day.
That lasts about fifteen minutes.
All hell starts to break loose when I am beautifying. Either I think my makeup makes me look like a cheap whore, or my curls are rebelling.
Roughly around this time I begin muttering under my breath that maybe this isn't the right career choice for me. That auditioning is evil. That 'I'm not cut out for this.' This is sometimes accompanied by a tear or two.
I continue to try and make myself look better by frantically applying more makeup and wielding my teasing comb like it's a magic wand. But the more I work, the more I look as if I am in a low-rent production of Hairspray.
So hair clips start to fly. Somehow hurling inanimate objects makes me feel temporarily better. (Me? Dramatic?) But it never ends up making my hair look better.
At this point I often decide not to go to the audition. Back to bed.
If I do end up making it past the Hair-and-Makeup Meltdown, the next hurdle to overcome is getting dressed.
Dressing for Success
Even though I love my audition outfit — the same one I wear day in and day out — the first five minutes I have it on my body I decide it's ugly. It makes me look fat. It makes me look old, desperate, short... (Fill in your negative adjective of choice.)
I decide I need to wear something different. I begin frantically whipping out tops and skirts trying on everything in my closet — all at a maddening pace because I've got a train to make. And if I miss the train, I'll miss the audition.
So I dash around the apartment changing from one outfit to the next, leaving a trail of clothes in my wake that makes it seem as if the place was raided by some insane fashionista.
My poor husband used to try and help me by offering his opinion. But after a particularly bad episode where I ended up in tears and hyperventilating, he learned that nothing he says will be right. Now he wisely chooses the silent "kiss her on her forehead and tell her I love her" approach.
(This has, on more than one occasion, saved him from getting a shoe thrown at his head.)
I'd say that roughly 50% of the time I do not make it past 'The Clothing Conundrum.' Because now not only do I hate my hair, makeup and dress, but the crying that I've inevitably done has left black mascara streaks running down my face. The sight of which makes me cry even more. The vicious cycle continues.
I've got one more hurdle to overcome before I make it to the train.
The Warmup
As you might assume, as a result of all of the crying, throwing of hair clips and racing around the house in a hysterical fashion show, my voice ends up being a little rough. Not to mention that fact that it's 7:30 a.m. Anyone's voice is rough at that hour. To my ears, my songs usually sound terrible, and I end up feeling like I can't sing.
My husband always says: "You sound great! " I respond with: "I suck." And out the door we go.
Now, you might think that after all that craziness, I'd be over the freak-out and ready to audition. You'd be wrong.
The minute I walk into the holding room, Pre-Audition Freak Out - Part 2 begins.
If I have an appointment, this part of things usually ends up ok. I sit in corner, mind my own business, wait until my name is called and try to breathe.
But if it's an open call, well, I'm hard pressed to make it to the sign-up list without turning around and heading back to Grand Central. Something about all those people crammed into a teensy-weensy holding room, singing their 16 bars, and trying to psych each other out makes me dizzy — and my fight-or-flight response sends me fleeing in terror.
If I manage to stick around, there's usually a brief period of time between when I sign in and when I'm called to line up that I feel utterly calm and confident. My breathing is steady. I can visualize a strong audition and I feel ready.
But that precious moment of Zen lasts only a short time.
The Audition
The moment I hear "Kerri Aab on deck," my throat produces the biggest phlegm ball that no amount of liquid will break down. I begin sweating profusely and I can't catch my breath. My head begins to pound and I have difficulty focusing.
I do what I can to make it all stop before I hit the audition room. But usually it's too late.
By the time I get to the accompanist I am talking 500 miles an hour, but making very little sense. I am cracking what I think are jokes. (From the deadpan responses I receive in return, I'm the only one who thinks they're funny.) I think the people in the room are probably trying to figure out how to get me to the nearest mental hospital without causing a scene.
And then comes the actual song — my moment to shine. The reason for all this insanity. Showtime!
(If at this point you're pulling for me to go in and knock 'em dead, you might want to stop reading.)
Usually lyrics are forgotten, notes are majorly missed, phrasing is non-existent and my acting is reduced to some kind of stagey gesticulating I learned in Miss Bette's musical theater class in fifth grade. All the hours of hard work and preparation have left the room along with my self-confidence and dignity. The idea of having fun or the thought of, "Wow I love performing!" never even enters my mind.
By some miracle, I often get asked to sing another song. But it generally doesn't work out any better than the first, and I am met with the familiar "Thank you, Kerri" — complete with what I always perceive to be faces of pity.
Then I walk out the door and within 10 minutes it's all gone. I feel fine. Dare I say I suddenly feel confident? I feel that "Let's do it again" sensation you experience after you get off a roller coaster and realize you didn't die.
But there are no re-do's at auditions. So I head back to Grand Central, kicking myself the whole way. I vow to that it'll be different next time.
But next time hasn't come yet.
Although I made it out the door this morning without any hair or clothing incidents, by the time I stepped into the audition I was a disaster. I had to start my song over three times because I suddenly stopped being able to hear the intro, and I ended up practically screaming what was supposed to be a tender ballad.
But on my way out the door, a producer followed me to out to tell me she loved my hair and my dress.
It's a start.