Tonight I drove to Cincinnati for the casting call for extras in this summer's Opera season. An extra doesn't sing (which you'll be happy to (not) hear!); we participate on stage in crowd scenes. I filled out an application, got my measurements taken and stood in front of a scrim with a measured grid for a polaroid. There were probably 100 of us crowded into a window-less rehearsal room on bleachers surrounding a concert grand piano. The Director clapped his hands for silence and spoke to us about the upcoming performances and expectations: "You provide the scenery," he told us.

Last year, I was dating Costume Designer, a grad student who was interning at the opera. Of the three people I've made an attempt to date in the last two years, I liked him the most. Seemed like he liked me, too -- ha ha ha! laugh laughing laughter hanging out. Towards what would be the end of our dating, he got me the gig as an extra and I was in a party scene for La Traviata last summer, yukking it up with the seamy side of Paris circa 1850. I knew nothing about opera and I had a blast!

As for Costume Designer? We didn't have a bust out fight or anything; it just slipped away. He told me he didn't like me as much as I liked him. We hung out a couple of times "as friends", but just between you and me Bloggies, that was a waste of time. I was a little sad, but not too torn up. I had always been honest with him and if that wasn't good enough, then so be it.

Well, he was there tonight.

"Costume Designer! How are you!" and we hugged and chatted a bit.

It wasn't as weird as I thought it would be. As I sat listening to the Director's schpiel, CD was in the background with a clipboard, pointing to polaroids of people and matching them to polaroids of costumes. I didn't feel sad or angry or anything. I think that was good.

Right? Or...?