Weight on the Wrong Foot

The night before last at rehearsal, I screwed up a dance.

This will surprise absolutely no one who knows me. Patient choreographers have tried for years to help me overcome what nature apparently never intended me to do. I practice. I count. I concentrate. I smile. I act as though I know what I’m doing.

And sometimes, I can fool an audience into believing I can dance.

I know I’m not a dancer. Everyone onstage with me knows it too. But theatre asks us to prepare, commit, collaborate, and make the audience believe. I’m not a Jewish grocer living in 1929 Berlin either, but for a few hours in *Cabaret*, that is my job.

Fortunately, my scene partner, Rita Hight, actually can dance. God love her, she has helped me time and time again. After I messed up the dance, she came in early the next evening and helped me yet again.

She didn’t roll her eyes or make me feel foolish. She simply helped me find the step, the rhythm, and the confidence to try again.

One reason I missed the step was embarrassingly simple: my weight was on the wrong foot.

When I was younger, I could shift quickly enough to compensate. At sixty, that doesn’t happen as easily. If my weight is on the wrong foot, the next step may not be available to me. I have to think ahead and prepare my body before the moment arrives.

That’s difficult to admit, but it’s true.

Then, last night, I went up on a line—one I had delivered correctly for the previous couple of rehearsals.

“Going up” is one of those wonderfully strange theatrical phrases. The line disappears. The words have gone up into the flies, leaving you stranded below with an empty space where the next thought should be.

I was furious with myself, and that anger caused more damage than the forgotten line. Instead of remaining inside the scene, I began punishing myself. Part of my mind was no longer with Rita. It was standing off to the side, berating me:

How could you miss that line? Maybe you can’t do this anymore.

That last thought is the dangerous one.

Maybe I’m too old to memorize lines. Maybe I can’t dance anymore. Maybe I waited too long to return to the stage.

I woke up this morning still anxious. My partner at home, Allison, listened as I explained why one missed line had frightened me so much.

“You’ve got to face the fear,” she said. “You’ve got to fight the fear. You’ve got to accept the fear and move past it.”

She was right. She usually is.

The fear is real. As I write this, Cabaret opens tomorrow, and rehearsals for me to play Albin/Zaza in La Cage aux Folles begin the day after. I’m preparing to carry two sets of lines, music, dances, characters, and emotional lives at nearly the same time.

Frankly, I’m a little terrified.

The lines don’t come as easily as they once did. I have to review them every day. I have to go over the dance, vocalize, stretch, and exercise both body and mind. I can’t casually decide I’m tired and skip a day.

It is a ritual now.

But perhaps it always should have been.

We sometimes mistake ease for talent. When something comes easily, we feel gifted. When it requires repetition and discipline, we fear we’re losing our ability.

But practice isn’t proof that I can’t do the work.

Practice is how I do the work.

At sixty, I may not have the speed or recall I once possessed. But years of experience have given me other resources. I know how to listen, connect with another actor, and keep a scene moving when something unexpected happens.

Some things are harder now. Some things are easier. The work lies in finding the grace and balance between the two.

That includes forgiving myself quickly enough to remain in the scene.

Fury isn’t discipline. Beating myself up doesn’t make me a better actor. It pulls me away from my partner and the story we’re trying to tell. Perhaps self-recrimination is another way of putting my weight on the wrong foot: the scene is moving forward, but I’m still leaning backward into the mistake.

Fortunately, I have partners.

One comes in early to help me find the step. One reminds me at home that fear must be faced, accepted, and moved through. Both remind me that trusting someone to catch me is not evidence that I can’t do the work. It is part of how the work gets done.

I will miss steps. I will forget lines. I will sometimes put my weight on the wrong foot.

Then I will practice. I will listen. I will accept help. I will face the fear. And I will move forward.

Perhaps confidence at this stage of life doesn’t come from believing I will never fall.

Perhaps it comes from knowing I don’t have to fall alone.

The next step is easier when the weight is on the right foot.

But when it isn’t, the dance is not necessarily over.

—

More about La Cage aux Folles in my next blog post. Right now, Cabaret runs July 31–August 2 and August 6–9, 2026, at Clarksville Little Theatre. Get your tickets through the Clarksville Little Theatre box office.

PS – If you’re interested in keeping up with my musings, please share your contact info. I promise not to share it with anyone other than Publisher’s Clearing House. Go to https://bartlovins.com/contact/ or click the button below.