It’s hard not to be intimidated by the trapeze girls. Bodies like wasps doing backflips and handstands in the dressing room.

I’ve asked Claudia like ten times while we were getting ready What’s missing with my makeup, my face? I stare at myself in the mirror and know things are missing. Now, in Ruby’s dressing room, I beg Natasha to do something. Something is missing.

It’s only the next morning that I will realize. Instead of my everyday silver necklace, my lavender eyeshadow, my glossy nearly natural pink lips, what I needed was a big purple diamond around one eye, and some slick black lipstick, and a heavy duty collar. Maybe some silver stars painted on the cheek opposite the diamond. Oh well.

And rockstar Claudia neglected a garter belt in designing her outift, and she’s losing her flared bootcovers while merely walking to the car, en route to Ruby. So we make a mad dash for the Victoria’s Secret around the block from the club. We bust in there like red alert and demand garter belts of the store greeters. But here’s a piece of news for you, dear reader: “VS doesn’t really do garter belts anymore.” Under our impatient glittery eyes, they manage to find one. Not several to choose from, just one. Luckily, it works.

Lesson number one. Don’t just try your clothes on– and hoop in em– in advance of your first high pressure gig—try out hair and makeup too, down to the fraggin fake eyelashes that take me 45 minutes to affix.

* * *

All day long Claudia has been telling herself I’m a rockstar. On stage later, it shows.

I forgot about that. The whole visualization and affirmation thing.

I drift in and out of being committed while performing. I Go For It for a few, and then kind of come to and feel silly, get bashful. I forgot to tell myself: I’m a superstar. Instead, there are moments when I question what in heaven’s name I am doing up there.

Lesson number two. Accept the role wholeheartedly. Anything less and, oh jeez, does it show.

* * *

To be fair, it is a difficult space. I mean, on the positive side, the stage is totally cleared, a big difference from regular nights when the DJ booth takes up a good portion of the space. And Ruby is one of the grandest venues ever, architecturally, reminding me of a couple clubs in gorgeous historic buildings I’ve been to in Europe.

But the reason the stage is cleared is that the DJ is on the dancefloor. The dancefloor is also partially covered with buffet tables. And the house lights are on. Romantically low, but on. None of the usual blacklights I’ve dressed for.

In other words, it is more of a networking event. Local paper SF Weekly celebrating their “Best of SF” issue: one big advertisement, really.

And the DJ? Well, He is hitting all your 80s favorites. Oh yes he is.

* * *

I’m pacing the dressing room, grumbling What is this shit?- Are we at a fraggin wedding?

It’s time for Natasha to go on and he’s been playing Van Halen and Survivor and the Rolling Stones. I mean, seriously.

So I walk over to him. This is awesome, I start off, smiling beautifully over the lie slithering between my teeth. And we’re going to start performing, and wondered if you could bring the tempo up just a wee bit. He says he was working up to it slowly, but will go ahead and click it up a notch.

When Billie Jean comes on, Natasha launches herself onto the stage.
By the time Claudia goes on he is at a sensuous midtempo Latin groove. During mine his mashing keeps crashing in with unexpected transitions, making it challenging to keep flowing…

The sweat is sheeting off me by ¾ of the way through.

I manage to not only drop my hoop with my shakey, slippery hands, but actually fling it out into the audience. Oops.

* * *

But in those moments where I really lost myself in Being a Performer, lapping up the smiles, the eyes, and beaming hoop love outward… that was sweet.

Lesson number three: Every time you put yourself out there you get better.