This week turned into many things it was never supposed to be. Primarily, insanely fucking busy.

It wasn’t slated to be a bad week. A corporate at the beginning of the week, a men’s choir’s Christmas concert midweek, round out the weekend with a couple rock concerts. Two days off spaced through the week, so there would still be time for laundry and dishes. Rather manageable, really.

But then, last minute, a government event got smashed in between the rehearsal for the men’s choir and their performance. Before, we were setting up the choir, rehearsing it, having a day off, and coming back to run the show before tearing it down. Now, it was set up for the government event, walk-through of governor’s handlers, strike that, set up the choir, rehearse the choir, strike that, re-set the governor, another walk-through by governor handlers, run the governor’s event, strike that, re-set the choir, run that show, and finally strike the whole damn thing and do a rock concert the next day. All this in about 60 hours. 60 long-ass hours. We alternated between endless stretches of waiting for the right people to show up and short bursts of frantic scrambling to get the next thing set up before the next people showed up. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally.

The roughest patch was without a doubt yesterday into today. Back on Tuesday, as we looked over the schedule for the next two days, we knew it would be messy. In at 9am to prep the governor’s event, followed by walk-through’s by various levels of the governor’s staff. He might be in to rehearse in the afternoon, he might not. (He didn’t.) Strike that event, have the choir set up by 6pm for rehearsal. Strike that at 10pm, re-set the governor’s setup. And if the governor didn’t rehearse in the afternoon, he might be by around 10:30pm to rehearse. (He wasn’t.) That could last until who knows how long, but a solid guestiment was at least midnight. (Shockingly, we were done by 10:30pm.) And back again at 6am for the governor’s event.

We didn’t know for sure what the turnaround time was going to be beforehand, but assuming that one needs at least 4 hours of sleep to be functioning at a minimal level, we needed at least 7 hours of turnaround time. (4 hours of sleep + 1 hour of commute time each way + 1 hour to shower, eat breakfast, etc. = 7 hours turnaround.) Anything less than that would hardly be worth the time and gas to drive home. And with a snowstorm predicted to drop 4-6 inches on us starting around midnight, we knew we’d likely need even more time.

Which is why when we left the house yesterday morning, we had a small suitcase, four pillows, and two quilts packed in the backseat. If last night’s call ended at least 7 hours before this morning’s call began, we would drive home. Less than that, and we would sleep in the theatre.

Which is what we ended up doing. Even though we had 7 hours turnaround time, the snow made us nervous, and being late to work this morning was not an option; the government event hit the ground running at 6am, and it was implied that anyone who came late should probably start prepping their resume. Add to that the fact that Kyle wasn’t 100% confident that he could make the 40 minute commute in the snow without passing out from exhaustion, and crashing at work just made sense.

And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. We brought a hamper full of spare legs (long, skinny curtains that mask the wings) up to our office and fashioned ourselves a little sleeping pallet of sorts on the floor.  It wasn’t exactly our mattress at home, but it was of an equivalent comfort to a couch. Being in the building alone can be a bit unsettling; even if I’m working alone during the day I like to have music playing because the space being so massive and empty makes me jumpy. But in our little nest in our office it felt cozy. (Plus, this way we could still cuddle!) We woke up at 4:30am and showered in one of the chorus dressing room showers. Not something I’d like to do everyday, but certainly not impossible.

Despite the success of our overnight adventure, I can’t help but think about our willingness to crash out at work. As soon as we realized that this was a possibility, it was immediately accepted without a second thought. Sure, it wasn’t the ideal option; passing out in our office on a pile of soft goods and showering in a shower of gym-caliber never is. Not to mention the fact that by the time we leave work today we will likely have been inside the building without seeing daylight for 30 hours or so. But it was what it was and we’d do what we had to do. After all, my previous boss, who was commuting 2 hours each way, slept at work on a couple of occasions when the turnaround time was short. And there are countless stories among theatre vets of excessively long workdays and epic feats accomplished without much sleep or food. So while ideal, it wasn’t unheard of. Within our industry, that is.

Maybe I’m just uninformed. Maybe there are legions of poor, unsung martyrs, crashing out on couches in offices everywhere. (I hope not for your sake, because sleeping at work ain’t fun.) But I’ve never heard of it happening outside of the tech theatre industry. I’ve never known other fields where it wasn’t uncommon to keep an air mattress or a fold-up cot in one’s office. Where the promise of at least 6 hours of sleep wasn’t a given, and less, unacceptable.  Where you sometimes get to eat only if you remembered and managed to grab a quick bite. And yet, when it is required of us to give of ourselves beyond the level of heath and comfort, we don’t hesitate; we just do. There’s an old (and very over-used) saying that goes, “The show must go on,” and the reality is that it must, even if it means sacrificing our health and sanity.

And I don’t know what it says about us. Well, I know what it says about us: it says that we have chosen to work in a field that sometimes abuses us because we love what we do with such intensity and passion that our well-being becomes secondary to the needs of the show. We are in the business of making magic, making the impossible happen; sometimes magic requires extraordinary work that doesn’t allow for sleep or regular meals. What I don’t know is whether this is a thing to be proud of or not. Does it mean that we’re the lucky few who’ve found jobs that we love so passionately that we don’t mind sacrificing ourselves? Or does it mean that we work in an industry that willingly abuses us because they know that we love what we do so much that we’ll take the abuse in order to keep our jobs? Is this just part of the gig? And is this level of selflessness something that later in my life I, like so many other aging stagehands, will find myself unable to maintain?

What I do know is that this stint of insanity is going to make for a very nice paycheck. That it would be much harder to get through if my coworkers weren’t some of my favorite people on this planet. That it would be nearly impossible to get through if my husband weren’t right with me in the trenches. And that I am fucking grateful as shit to have a steady, if unpredictable, job in the field of my choice. Beyond that, I don’t have any answers, and at the moment I’m just too damn tired to think about the questions.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to put up.

Due to a series of unfortunate events, Kyle and I found ourselves in New Jersey on the day before Thanksgiving with four hours to kill before our flight. So naturally, we did what everyone does in New Jersey in the winter: we went to the mall.

Luckily for us, the Jersey Garden Mall is fucking enormous, so our time was easily spent. We mostly window-shopped; our only purchase aside from lunch were some sour cherry-cola gummies. (Which were fucking awesome!) But we went into a couple stores, drooled over some wished-for items, and strolled the halls of the mall together, watching people and gazing through windows.

We were nearing the end of our time at the mall when suddenly…

I saw them.

I stopped in my tracks, walked over to the window, and pointed at them. “Those,” I said, my voice practically shaking. “I want those.”

They were the most beautiful, wonderful, fucking kick-ass boots I’ve ever seen in my life.

Aren't they just breathtaking?

They look like the kind of boots that you wear to high tea and then afterwards stomp on some hipster’s face in the parking lot. Wear on date night and then throat-kick some asshole at the bar. Flirt your way to the front row of the show and then crush the foot of the guy who tries to pull you off the barrier. They were made for me. My life has a boot shaped hole in them, and these boots fit it perfectly.

I was able to drag myself away from the window, but they wouldn’t leave my mind. I knew that this was more than just a fashion fling. They are my footwear soul mates. I needed to take the first step towards making these boots a part of my life. I made Kyle circle back with me so that I could try them on…just to see what size I was, right? Putting those beautiful boots on my feet only further imprinted them in my soul. They just felt so…right. Like if I had hobbit feet, they would be floral and lace up to my calves exactly like these boots. I left them there that day, (much to the fury of the sales girl who’d fetched them for me,) but I knew that our separation would only be temporary. Come hell or high water, I would make those boots mine. As soon as we got to Kyle’s parents’ house I stole his laptop and googled the shit out of them, if only to see that they weren’t a figment of my imagination but something that were still attainable.

Today, I am no closer to making those boots mine. The game plan I came up with was simply to lay low and bide my time. I figured that either one of two things would happen: either the universe and I would conspire to make them mine or the passage of time would soften the memory of those lovely boots and I would slowly forget the ache of longing that rang in my chest when I thought of them.

But that was before I realized what a heartless motherfucking fucknugget Google is.

Remember how I said that as quickly as I could I googled those beautiful boots? Well, apparently Google took note of the intensity with which I typed and realized that this particular google was more important than last week’s “temperature of a properly cooked chicken” or “katy perry topless.” (Hey, don’t judge. You know you have equally weird shit in your Google history. Not that Katy Perry’s boobs are weird; they’re quite lovely, in fact.) And it remembered this google.

And now they’re everywhere.

(The boots, not Katy Perry’s boobs.)

Whatever logarithm Google advertising uses to figure out what I want to look at, apparently the answer is always those boots. Everywhere I go on the internet, there’s an ad for those boots. Everywhere. Taunting me. I meander over to Facebook and *BOOM*, there they are. Make my way over to WebMD and *BAM*, there they are again. Slate, Lamebook, MyFitnessPal, eNotes,  BitchinLifestyle, ShitMyKidsRuined, even…

*dramatic pause*

…some of your blogs.

That’s right. Even your very blogs are rubbing those boots in my face. Constantly reminding me of what I can’t have. I try to forget them. I do. I tell myself that they’re just shoes, there will be others, there’s tons of boots in the sea. And just when I think that I’m finally over them, that I’m ready to move on, *KA-BLAMO*, there they are, hanging at the top of another website in all their leather floral glory. They’re like the ex who dumped me for someone else but I keep running into at the grocery store when I’m wearing sweats and my eyes are still red and puffy and I’m trying to pretend that I’m not there buying more brownie mix and $3 wine. It’s all I can do to avert my eyes, get the hell out of there, and hope they didn’t see me. Because the truth is I’m not over those boots. Not at all. In fact, I want them more than ever.

Which is why, like that chick who stalked Robert Pattinson until he took her to dinner, I will not fucking stop until I make them mine. It may take some time and require me to do something embarassing, but those boots will be mine.

And then, god willing, Google will stop tormenting me and let me rest peacefully.

Last Friday night, Kyle and I went to see The Urge, a wildly popular St Louis band. They’re primarily a ska/metal hybrid, with a sprinkle of reggae. They broke up in 2001, but recently got back together, starting with their first show in September. Days later, I still have them stuck in my head. Not The Urge’s music, exactly, but the battle cry that the crowd screams before the show, the encore, and during the slightest moment of silence:

PLAY THAT MOTHERFUCKING URGE SHIT!

This was my first Urge show ever, and to say that they do not disappoint would be both a cliche and an understatement. To say that they melted my motherfucking face off and left my brain a gooey mess sliding down the walls would be a step in the right direction.

The Urge put on a killer live show. They’re fantastic musicians, of course, but it’s the energy that fires from the stage that really makes an impact. Taking pictures of them is nearly impossible, because when they’re not ripping it up on their respective instruments they’re literally running around the stage; one of my favorite moments of the show was the song when the saxophonist and trombonist spent most of it running to opposite sides of the stage, winding up, and running pell-mell at each other.

It's hard to tell, but if you look at the left edge you can see the saxophonist getting ready to run smashing into the trombonist.

To stand perfectly still and watch The Urge on stage would be physically impossible.

The energy from the stage combined with the bass thundering from the massive subs under the stage found me in the first row of the pit and filled my entire body. Being in that pit was an emotionally amplified experience. Everything that I saw, heard, felt, was manifested in a physical wave that slammed my body and filled my chest. It was so…visceral.

I’ve experienced this sort of unrestrained energy in pits before, but never so much as I did in The Urge’s pit. I didn’t know a single word to any of their songs, but I found myself screaming along wordlessly and jumping up and down with the surge of the pit just to match the energy and abandonment of the stage and the crowd.

But this show did more to me than just penetrate my skin with energy and loose me in the wave of senses. You see, this may have been my first Urge show ever, but it was not Kyle’s first, not by any stretch of the imagination. In his 26 years of life Kyle’s seen The Urge 10-15 times, and they are without question his favorite band. He left his high school graduation to go see their last live show before they broke up for good. Long before he found out they were getting back together, I’d heard countless stories of The Urge and their shows, the pit and diving into the pounding, thrashing mess. And when he did find out they were getting back together, he nearly pissed himself. I was excited to go to this show because it was supposed to be a great show, but also because it was a chance to get a taste of an experience from his adolescence.

Watching him dive again and again into the thickest of the pit, smashing into people wearing the same grin as a kid on Christmas, I felt like a could see a glimpse of that 16 year old Kyle.

The next day, we were both in seriously sad shape. Besides only getting two hours of sleep before having to wake up to catch our flight home, (we make bad decisions sometimes,) we were both pretty battered. My voice was completely gone, my elbows were tender from repeated bashing into the barrier, and you could tell exactly how high the barrier was based on the line of bruises crossing my rib cage. To say I felt like I’d been hit by a truck was only minorly hyperbolic.

But it was completely 100% worth it. It was a fucking amazing show because The Urge put on a fucking amazing show. But it was also a fucking amazing show because it rocked my bones to their marrow and showed me a little part of who Kyle was.

PLAY THAT MOTHERFUCKING URGE SHIT!