I had my costume fitting for Höllander today. Fitting me into an already existing production seemed to be a task that this particular costuming professional had not planned on, that and, judging by the look on her face as she sized me up upon entering her studio, I took up an incredibly different amount of space than the person I was replacing, who was apparently so small, that it may have actually been a child, or someone who was very malnourished. On second thought, maybe not, because the t-shirt smelled like an old sandwich. Moving on, stitches were ripped out of pant waists. I tried on three jackets – each one fitting more tightly than the last – before the costume professional sighed and shook her head, whereupon I was put in an enormous sweater. The shoes worked on the first try, however.
This is all new to me. Very new. My wife has it all down pat – she has dressers and people who poke and prod her, tug and nip at costumes, frowning until it gets closer to right, or, at least, closer to what the director had in mind, but didn’t realize what it was until he saw it on stage, all of which she takes in stride – it’s just part of her job. She’s walked offstage, thrown her hands up in the air and had two or three dressers rip her clothes off, and put on a new costume right there in the wings – in front of all the tech people (which makes my skin crawl a little bit). This is normal – and civilized – apparently.
So I’m in the fitting; my wife is there with me (thank God), and the costume lady hands me a pair of pants. I look at her. I look at the pants, as if they would have some answer. I look at my wife, who is looking back at me. “Make with the pants,” her eyes say.
Now – this may be oversharing, but here we are – I am a man who appreciates interesting boxer designs, and choose a particular pair, and its design, based on my mood – yes, I said it – on that particular day. Now, at this moment, holding the costume pants in my hand, looking at my wife, whose eyes are getting wider with each passing second, I am frantically thinking, among other things, “Dear God, what pair of boxers am I wearing today?” Needless to say, I did not think this event through with any level of specificity.
I don’t remember making the decision to drop trow, but when it happened, I was breathless with relief to learn that I had donned the one boring pair of boxers this morning. And the pants fit! Praise Jesus, on both counts.
So, I have my costume. I am a drunken Norwegian sailor (funny – I always suspected as much). I am in the process of memorizing, which is whipping my ass – germangermangerman. I’m set on the notes, though (shocker), and I’m waiting with trepidatation for the staging rehearsals to commence, God help me.
I am loving every minute of it!