Dear Theatre,

I’m feeling a bit left in the dust.

I remember college. I remember spending at least four hours of my day – every day – working on a huge, creative, collaborative project. I remember walking around campus in between class and play rehearsal, feeling important . . . feeling productive. Sometimes I’d even say I was feeling alive and on fire.
I don’t know why I can’t come to terms with you. I felt strongly enough about you in college to dedicate 5 years of my education to you . . . to spend endless hours on you. I used to be able to talk to people about why you’re so important to society and life and the human race in general.

Now, I find myself rolling my eyes at you half of the time. I look up from my spit-up covered shirt and think, “Wow, must be nice to have four hours a night to frolic about on the stage dressed up and playing pretend with a bunch of people.”

And that’s just not okay. I hate that I have those thoughts, because the Me From College would look at Me In the Now with a dropped jaw and a look of horror on her face. Then she’d probably hand me a Victorian novel and offer to rub my feet, because I would hope that Past Me and Now Me would at least want to help each other, despite the fact that we couldn’t understand one another.

I know that you are much, much more than just “playing pretend.” I know that you used to fill my heart up and make my adrenaline pump and that I couldn’t get enough of you. I used to know that you were made up of so many things and so many people.

I used to see people onstage . . . now all I see are egos. I see bodies trampling over one another to be the one person closest to the limelight.

Ugh. That makes me feel like crap, too, because I know those people, and I know that they are more than egos. Some of them are brilliant, and some of them are selfless and giving and truly in love with creating art. If I’m going to be completely honest, I have to say that my ego was plenty well-fed back then . . . and that didn’t make my love for you any less genuine.

I know that I just need to wait. I need to wait until I’m able to be in a play again. To be immersed in you is to love you, and eventually I’ll have the time to go buy me some swimming pants.

So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of the eye rolls and snarky thoughts. It’s not you, it’s me. I think? Maybe it’s you. Either way, we’ll figure it out.

Wait for me?

Your estranged friend,