All the world's a stage.
It was a mere three weeks ago I made the uncomfortable realization that I had fallen into a morass of mental, physical inertia and purposed to fight toward greatness once again. The impetus? Watching my young daughter toil under the heavy yoke of classical ballet, the greatest artform ever gifted our undeserving world.
Tendu, arabesque, rombe de jambe, pirouette.
Unlike our surfing, there’s no “almost good enough” in ballet.
No “close.”
Ain’t horseshoes nor hand grenades in the greatest artform ever gifted us from Italy, France, Russia.
Every sinew is either properly aligned or else it is properly not and if it is properly not then angry barks rain down from unrelenting masters.
Perfection demanded.
I watched her grit, felt my deep shame, purposed to knock Ashton Goggans out in the greatest trilogy fight of the decade but a funny thing happened on the way to the octagon.
I was asked to play Mother Ginger in San Diego Academy of Ballet’s upcoming performance of The Nutcracker.
Originally choreographed by the legendary Marius Ivanovich Petipa and scored by the even more legendary Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, The Nutcracker has become one of the most iconic ballets ever.
A pure work of art.
And there I was, taking young daughter to days’ long rehearsals, endless classes, watching her reach levels of talent that I had never even sniffed when the call came in.
“Would you be Mother Ginger?”
For the boorish, uninformed, Mother Ginger is a pivotal character in The Nutcracker. She shuffles on stage, garishly, in the second act during the “Land of Sweets” arrangement. She is pure divertissement, enjoyable diversion, entering stage with a host of Bon Bons, or tiny dancers, under the broad folds of her skirt whom emerge, dance, get scolded, slide back under her dress while she shuffles off to rapturous burst of applause.
Historically, Mother Ginger has been played by a tall man in drag as it takes a tall man to support the skirt folds necessary to hide many Bon Bons, and it was my destiny to be this tall man… in drag.
Sensing the important kink in my road to greatness, I accepted at once showing up to my first rehearsal with ever-present WHOOP strap affixed, twenty-odd Bon Bons scrambling, giggling, choreographer exhausted, me, in skeleton of broad skirt, trying not to step on them, trying to vamp appropriately.
Artistically.
Perfectly.
In my premier, and much-loved, WHOOP missive telegraphing that pivot to greatness, the august Travis Edgar suggested, “Maybe just do ballet with the kid” instead of training to fight.
He had no idea how stressful, how taxing, how completely impossible the whole business is.
Sweating.
I was sweating profusely whilst trying not to step on Bon Bons whilst attempting to remember my choreography whilst waving my arms, garishly, fabulously, whilst hoisting my skirt skeleton.
A fitness bonanza.
My WHOOP measured a heretofore record 9.8 of strain.
The most strain yet and I defy you to come close, challenge you to affix a WHOOP strap to your own wrist (an unheard of fifteen percent off if use the code BEACHGRIT at checkout).
I was just also cast as “Party Dad” in the equally iconic Party Scene.
Strain numbers through the roof.
Gogganses running for the hills.
Black dance shoes ordered.
More as the story develops.
Ticket information forthcoming.
