In order to further my inane attempt at narcissism

A look into my refrigerator:

Cheeses: Le Grand Mogol, and two from Cato Corner Farm: Brigid's Abbey and Rappleree. Also queso blanco. Also cheddar.
Produce/herbs: A bunch of radishes, a head of broccoli, bunch of cilantro, parsley, onions and tomatoes (in the pantry), six lemons, three leeks, four mushrooms, packet of thyme, four celery stalks, five oranges, two parsnips, half of a cucumber
Meats: Prosciutto
Homemade Pickles: Green bean, red onion, cabbage, Thai carrot, Thai cucumber
Bread: Seven corn tortillas, two halves of two different baguettes (in the freezer)
Sauces/condiments: Chimichurri, romesco, mushroom-leek-wine, sour cream, orange-cumin (masterminded by my favorite roommate), mustard (two kinds), mayo, fish sauce, chili-garlic sauce
Leftovers and etc: Bean salad, collard greens, brisket, charoset, roasted potatoes (from Passover), 10 eggs, La Salamandra Dulce de Leche, leftover beet spaghetti, 3/4 jar of San Marzano tomatoes

Oh...no. Even I wasn't expecting that.

The best acting advice I ever got was to "do less." I don't remember what exactly it was in regards to, or even when I first heard it, but it became an oft-repeated phrase and the bane of my existence for most of my  professional career (I define "professional" very loosely here, for two reasons: 1. I've included my children's community theatre days, in which I portrayed, among other things, a magic singing sorceress and a sloppy mermaid; and 2. if we're going to assume that "professional" means "getting paid," all but about 4 of my 50+ shows would be considered "amateur," and I did not spend 26 years of my life as an amateur, not, most certainly, by my standards). "Pare it down, Robin, you're working too hard" or "just let the text speak" or "pick one goddamn objective and a few goddamn tactics and just do the goddamn play" were all variations of "do less." So, I did. Or at least I tried.

This is how it went: If I was cast, I'd lock myself up and study, analyze, research the play for days. Then I'd do the same with my character. I'd probably memorize my lines, or most of them, and I'd come away with a pretty good understanding of what my character wanted and how she'd go about getting it. I'd get really jazzed and amped up because, by god, I was an actor and I fully understood the human condition. Then I'd go to rehearsal, sit down and read through the play with the rest of the cast, stage manager and director. I'm good at readthroughs, so "I am the best actor in the world" is probably what I thought that night, and I'd have a beer.

The next day at rehearsal we'd get up on our feet. And I would fall apart. Badly. Suddenly acting was really difficult, and to overcompensate I'd try to justify my actions onstage with absurd psychological reasoning. I'll give you an example from our production of Winnie The Pooh, in which I played Kanga (and my little sister, oddly enough, was cast as Roo):  "Obviously, Kanga is shielding Roo from Eeyore because he represents, you know, Kanga's childhood insecurity about waking up one day with a pathetic gnarly tail pinned to her backside which is stated, of course, in the subtext of her speech to Piglet in Act I, Scene 4." The director, ever-patient, would look at me and say, "do you think it might have anything to do with Eeyore's surprise birthday party? And Roo's big mouth? Maybe you should revisit the text...?" With that, I'd become as morose as the donkey I was allegedly trying to protect.

Ok. Why do I tell you this. Because I'm trying to do a thing in my life right now. I'm trying to simplify, uh, everything. I have three jobs, too many high school sweatshirts that I don't wear anymore, an unbelievable collection of old newspaper clippings, six journals, three jewelry boxes filled with I don't know what, two contact lens cases...not to mention the seven boxes of books still sitting at my parents' house in Chicago (condensed from FIFTEEN, which almost ended me, I think). And it's too much. It's overwhelming.

I think I fill my life with things because I'm afraid to commit (which comes as a surprise to no one, but it's refreshing to state it out in bloggo land (different from Blago land, which is where I lived for years)). I could provide a laundry list of all (careers, people, relationships) I've walked out on, but I'll spare you another one. I leave, or change, when it gets too sticky. Not complicated, mind you. Sticky. When I feel a thing sticking to me I throw it away, or kiss it goodbye, or stuff it in a file folder somewhere, and promptly replace it with something else. It's becoming messy, it's interfering with my writing, with my experience here, with my confidence I think, even, and that's not what I want. My soul's become cluttered, not to mention my apartment, and space here is, as we all know, at a premium.

My refrigerator is bursting open because it's hard for me to commit to similar flavors two nights in a row. While my varied food life fills the pages of this blog and keeps me (more than) sated, it's time to admit that I have a problem and, after I do that, it's time for an intervention. I need to be happy with less, and focus on two or three key areas of my life and myself. Filling these few areas to capacity will, I think, make me feel richer than spreading myself so thin I can't excel in any one. I want to be full, my gosh, it's what I want most of all.

But first things first. Tonight? I feast on leftovers. And dulce de leche. With a spoon.