Last night Andreas and I went over to Bainbridge to see my 17-year-old cousin in a musical at my old high school. For a nostalgia junky like myself, it was an awesome walk down memory lane. My teenaged life revolved around musical theater, and it was such a tasty trip to be back in my old theater. I had my first kiss on that stage, while playing Maybelle in The Pirates of Penzance. I could list the other firsts and memories and everything else for days but I’ll spare you. Needless to say, I spent the evening in the non-home place that had the most influence on me as a teenager, the epicenter of my adolescent development. It was sort of intoxicating.

The play was tons of fun, and afterwards my cousin summarized why theater is such a great thing for teenagers. “It’s like I get to be an asshole?” he said. “But it’s totally not real? But it’s fun!” I was reminded of when, my sophomore year, I had a musical number where I was instructed to act sort of slutty. I was completely virginal at the time, and felt the need to prepare my parents for opening night. “There’s this scene?” I warned them. “And I’m supposed to be sort of flirty? But that’s not really me? It’s just acting.” And you know what? I certainly wasn’t acting like a slut in my day-to-day life, so that stage was pretty much the only place to be one. That said, none of the kids last night overacted as painfully as I used to — lucky for them.

My cousin was great and the play was so high energy. It was awesome. I realize now that family friends came to see my plays in high school not because they were so into seeing me (although sure: that too) but because a high school musical is a great way to get an insane hit of teenage energy. It’s hard to go more balls-out insane than a dance number with a bunch of 15-year-olds jacked on hormones and the attention of a room full of people. It was awesome!

I managed to avoid my high school drama teacher, too. I never got along very well with him back in the day, and he seems to be the same arrogant gas-bag he always was. I say this as an accomplished arrogant gas-bag myself — we know our own, and there’s only enough oxygen for one of us at a time in any given conversation. Since we were on his turf, I demurred. Andreas was relieved, as I had delivered a whithering tirade earlier in the evening about how I dropped out of my last play in high school because I got along so poorly with the drama teacher. I was an opinionated picky bitch even then.

Perhaps my favorite moment of the night was when one of my cousin’s fellow cast-members, an adorably effete boy with bleached hair and an affected lisp, sauntered past my family as we stood gathered around my cousin after the show. “Doesn’t Austin look great in make-up?” my cousin’s friend squealed, and my aunt didn’t miss a beat before answering, “Of course he does.”