My freshman year of college, I had the strangest little acting teacher. Her name was Barbara, but everybody called her Bodde (yes, it was short for “Bodacious”). She spoke in an intense, forced whisper and her class was everything you’d expect a college acting class to be.
She had us spend half of a semester sniffing liquids onstage to help us establish an understanding of sense memory. We would crawl around on the floor and howl at an imaginary moon. It was magical. Bodde was beyond kooky and the only constant in her class was something that she called “constructive rest”.
She had a resolute awareness of the lack of sleep that her students were getting, so at the beginning of every class she had us lay down on the floor- not to sleep, but to “rest”. She claimed that this was the best possibly way to focus our minds and energize our bodies.
On the first day of class, she instructed us to find a place on the floor and to lay down on our backs, knees bent, palms on the floor. We were clear our minds and do nothing but focus on our breathing. This would go on for about 15, sometimes 20 minutes. We did this every single day for an entire year.
Well, for the first few classes, I thought constructive rest was total bullshit. I thought that she was so loopy she didn’t bother to make a lesson plan and that we were going to lay there, half asleep on the floor, until she came up with one. I was a good student and I did what I was told. While students around me would snicker and send text messages, I would lay there quiet as a nun, trying to force myself to clear my mind- to not think about boys, or school, or boys- but I was never able to make it to that tranquil plateau because there was a persistent pain in my lower back, day after day. After about a week I’d had enough of it, so I called Bodde over and she squatted down next to me in her purple miniskirt, hoohah blowing in the wind.
“Bodde,” I said, “something is wrong with my back when I lay in this position. I can’t focus on my breathing and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Now, Jeremy,” she whispered, “let me take a look.” And with that, she began to explore the contours of my incredibly-uncomfortable-with-her-touch body. “Your problem is right here,” she buzzed into my ear as her hands reached my lower back. “You need to release this tension and lift to allow your spine its natural curve.”
I made the adjustment and instantly my lungs took their first full breath of the semester. She hissed, “Has anyone ever told you- you have a lovely ribcage?”
“Uh, no,” I said.
And her smile beamed when she replied, “… they will.”
I was 18 years old and I officially had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I mean, I guess if I am being completely honest, I have to admit that I do have an abnormally large ribcage. It protrudes further than my gut and it’s wider than it needs to be for any practical purposes. I knew that then and I know that now. It was a few hours (read: days) later that I finally realized what Bodde was really trying to say to me. With her cryptic words, she was blessing me with love. She wanted me to know that someday my prince will come, and he will have a thing for spacious chest cavities. Or something.
I feel like that in between then and now, I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes. I graduated college, I discovered life, I discovered love, I discovered what my ass would like after I quit acting.
10 years later I am lying in bed with my boyfriend and we’re trying to get our snugz on. As usual, he was driving me insane with his struggling and his squirming to get comfortable. But when he put his head on my chest and paused, the world stopped. And without a thought in my head, I was finally able to focus on my breathing. It lasted for about 30 seconds before he sighed and retreated to his own pillow in disgust.
“Ugh. What is wrong with your ribcage?” he bellowed. “Why does it… stick out like that? What a freak.”
Well, at least he noticed.
She had us spend half of a semester sniffing liquids onstage to help us establish an understanding of sense memory. We would crawl around on the floor and howl at an imaginary moon. It was magical. Bodde was beyond kooky and the only constant in her class was something that she called “constructive rest”.
She had a resolute awareness of the lack of sleep that her students were getting, so at the beginning of every class she had us lay down on the floor- not to sleep, but to “rest”. She claimed that this was the best possibly way to focus our minds and energize our bodies.
On the first day of class, she instructed us to find a place on the floor and to lay down on our backs, knees bent, palms on the floor. We were clear our minds and do nothing but focus on our breathing. This would go on for about 15, sometimes 20 minutes. We did this every single day for an entire year.
Well, for the first few classes, I thought constructive rest was total bullshit. I thought that she was so loopy she didn’t bother to make a lesson plan and that we were going to lay there, half asleep on the floor, until she came up with one. I was a good student and I did what I was told. While students around me would snicker and send text messages, I would lay there quiet as a nun, trying to force myself to clear my mind- to not think about boys, or school, or boys- but I was never able to make it to that tranquil plateau because there was a persistent pain in my lower back, day after day. After about a week I’d had enough of it, so I called Bodde over and she squatted down next to me in her purple miniskirt, hoohah blowing in the wind.
“Bodde,” I said, “something is wrong with my back when I lay in this position. I can’t focus on my breathing and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Now, Jeremy,” she whispered, “let me take a look.” And with that, she began to explore the contours of my incredibly-uncomfortable-with-her-touch body. “Your problem is right here,” she buzzed into my ear as her hands reached my lower back. “You need to release this tension and lift to allow your spine its natural curve.”
I made the adjustment and instantly my lungs took their first full breath of the semester. She hissed, “Has anyone ever told you- you have a lovely ribcage?”
“Uh, no,” I said.
And her smile beamed when she replied, “… they will.”
I was 18 years old and I officially had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I mean, I guess if I am being completely honest, I have to admit that I do have an abnormally large ribcage. It protrudes further than my gut and it’s wider than it needs to be for any practical purposes. I knew that then and I know that now. It was a few hours (read: days) later that I finally realized what Bodde was really trying to say to me. With her cryptic words, she was blessing me with love. She wanted me to know that someday my prince will come, and he will have a thing for spacious chest cavities. Or something.
I feel like that in between then and now, I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes. I graduated college, I discovered life, I discovered love, I discovered what my ass would like after I quit acting.
10 years later I am lying in bed with my boyfriend and we’re trying to get our snugz on. As usual, he was driving me insane with his struggling and his squirming to get comfortable. But when he put his head on my chest and paused, the world stopped. And without a thought in my head, I was finally able to focus on my breathing. It lasted for about 30 seconds before he sighed and retreated to his own pillow in disgust.
“Ugh. What is wrong with your ribcage?” he bellowed. “Why does it… stick out like that? What a freak.”
Well, at least he noticed.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDelete