In other, and-I-promise-briefer news, I’m sick.
I hate how I get a cold almost every time I fly. People are filthy, especially children-people. You’re trapped up there at 35,000 feet, and the airlines don’t change the air ’cause that suffocates you into being more docile or something, so within a few days of landing”¦ the sore throat, the sniffles, the cough.
I wish we in the West would adopt that habit of wearing masks when we’re sick; it’s so much more respectful to others.
I’m taking mittfuls of Vitamic C, ginseng, and echinacea, but it’s a bit late for that now. I forgot to take them before flying. Anyone out there have a better suggestion for avoiding this?
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Here’s another thing I’ve been thinking about: For years I’ve essentially been apologising for having been an actor. After going to my theatre department reunion, I’m moved to not do that anymore. It was a damned hard thing to study and to do for a living, and what I learned shaped the person I became, the way I see the world, the way I understand human beings, and the way I use language. It’s a noble profession; the people I know who are still doing it work hard, and I recognise that the writing work I do now — both commercial and creative — is all exactly the same thing.
I used to say “I’m a recovering actor” as a joke, like I was putting on a nametag and joining a meeting. Now I feel proud about having been one, and, if I can make a confession, while I was back in the Maritimes and going to a lot of different theatre shows, I found myself wishing I was doing a little gig for the summer. There’s nothing like a summer stock to give you the lark of a holiday and the camaraderie of an army troupe under fire all in one.
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