Senior year, spring opera = Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro. Yum. Mozart FTW.
I was already on deck as rehearsal accompanist (at our school, the orchestra plays the opera every other year, and this was an orchestra year). I wheedled Dr. Jerome into letting me play harpsichord for it, completely disregarding the fact that I don’t actually play the harpsichord. Minor detail. He didn’t need to know. And he wanted to put the harpsichord onstage, which ROCKED. WIN.
The costume was the first hurdle. Dr. Jerome had initially talked about putting me in a male costume for the show, like the girl who played Cherubino. I didn’t want to dress like a boy (come on, it’s my first opera “role.” I want boobs). So I asked him if I could dress as a girl. He said OK. I went to be fitted for my costume, explained the whole thing to the costume woman (she is a scary little crone), who said OK, whatever, and measured me. A few weeks later, when we went to try on costumes, I popped in the dressing room and she started to pull out kneebreeches and a vest. I was all Fuck What? And had to explain AGAIN that I was to be dressed as a girl. She looked dumbfounded. Apparently my talking to both her and the artistic director had had absolutely no effect. How foolish of me to expect it would.
