EPISODE 2 NEW SCHOOL

Desperately seeking a community akin to what I had found in wrestling, and in the pursuit of a new passion, I tried out jobs and hobbies like they were part of a wardrobe montage in a rom-com. I worked at a Pilates studio—too beige! Taught English as a foreign language—too detailed! Took capoeira classes—too many patterns! Took Muay Thai classes—too uncomfortable!

I actually did do a bodybuilding competition with only three weeks of prep time—too tight! Though I did come in third place, it was as vapid as I expected. My awkward posing routine to Shawn Michaels entrance music, in my cheap red bikini, while lathered in a chocolate-like subsidiary of fake tan is why I am happy iPhones were not in the hand of every human on earth in 2008. Additionally, the comment of “The third-place winner was too fat” that came from an audience member was scar-worthy. Especially considering I was already bulimic.

I had to find the right fit. Something comfy, but with a little flavor, maybe something elastic, allowing for growth. Then I saw it! A ten-week acting class at the Gaiety School of Acting! I would have the chance to express myself, perform, and maybe even rebuild some confidence. It was the perfect fit! I tried it on, twirled while all my friends clapped and cheered as I strutted around like a tiger. I could get into this shit.

One game of Zip Zap Zop and I was ready to give up my good, pensionable job, take out all my life savings, and go back to school with a bunch of theatre kids.

My mom, however, was not as enthused by my revelation.

“You’re not going to give up a job in Aer Lingus to do that. We will lose all respect for you,” she said in the most Irish mammy way of saying anything an Irish mammy ever says. “I’ll tell you what you need to do.…”

Please tell, I thought, having lost faith in my inner compass and ability to determine what was right for me. Maybe I should just listen to my mom.

“You need to go see a guidance counsellor. I actually know one,” Mom continued.

It didn’t seem like a terrible idea. I didn’t trust myself to make a decision anymore, and maybe a counsellor could help me with my unhealthy relationship to food as well as help me sort out my career.

Sitting in the front office of the counsellor’s large and proper-looking home, it appeared as if she knew what she was doing. Certificates hung on the wall alongside pictures of her smiling children, while expensive-looking ornaments decorated the room. She sat with perfect posture in a pencil skirt, looking at me with faux sympathy from behind her desk.

I’m not sure this woman is going to get my conflict with wrestling, I thought, stereotyping her from the jump. Turns out she didn’t get much of anything. After explaining my worrying relationship with food, she left the room and came back with a plate of cookies for me. As if that might solve my problem. I politely grazed the hard edges with my teeth, trying to guess the amount of carbs per serving and wondering if I’d have to do extra cardio that night for my sins. Dusting the crumbs off my fingertips, I explained my agony.

“I love wrestling. But there’s no future in it. It’s just not a realistic dream. I want to find something that I love as much, but that’s a safer choice, you know what I mean?”

“Well, you can’t do that anymore. But have you considered business studies?” she responded, deadpan.

Spending four years doing something so utterly boring felt like a prison sentence.

I left, barely able to see through my tears as I bawled my eyes out in my red Volkswagen Polo.

I drove across a suspended bridge and imagined myself veering to the left and plummeting into the water far below.

Just one flick of the steering wheel and it’ll be over.

Hold on, ya bastard. It’ll get better.

I was now white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Any move I make from here is better than this.

Fuck this, I thought. You don’t want to do business. You don’t want to do sports management. You want to perform. Do that. Find a way. Find a fucking way, Rebecca.

I crossed the bridge.

Immediately upon arriving home that night, I began researching acting schools.

American schools were first on my list. I hoped that if I could get over there, maybe I could be free to be whoever I wanted to be; I wouldn’t have to be this unconfident weirdo wreck. Or more importantly, I wouldn’t have to answer to my mom.

The benefit of being a flight attendant paid dividends as I set up my first audition to a New York school called the American Academy of Dramatic Arts on an overnight the very next week.

As soon as we landed, I discarded my uniform in a heap on my hotel room floor and rushed to the school, knees knocking together as I speed-walked down Madison Avenue. I arrived at the large redbrick building that had boasted an impressive list of alumni; everyone from Robert Redford to Paul Rudd had taken classes here. I tried vainly to fan the pit stains out of my shirt as I sat eagerly outside the audition room waiting to be called.

Either I take a step in the right direction to creating a life I want to live or I’m told I’m the shits and go back to my unfulfilled life. It was all riding on this one audition.

I had purposefully picked a monologue that would benefit from my unshakable nerves.

Afterwards, the judge sat there silent for the longest fifteen seconds of my life. It was like watching The X Factor and they’re going to either be blown away or tell you you should never show your face in public again.

“That was wonderful,” he said at last as my insides skipped like I was a schoolchild.

Holy fuck! Maybe not all is lost, I thought as I sighed relief and silently shouted out the magnificent playwright whose words managed to make me look decent at this crucial point in my life.

“Tell me, why do you want to act?”

I had never really thought about why I liked performing. It just brought something out of me.

“Well, at fifteen I became a professional wrestler, but I gave it up almost three years ago and I’ve felt a void ever since. I think that void is maybe artistic expression. I want to create. I want to perform. I want to live in another head and body that doesn’t feel like my own.”

He pondered my answer for a second before advising, “Don’t tell yourself you can’t do it. If it’s not for you, other people will tell you.”

(I’m aware that he meant this as a motivational tool against self-destruction. But people told me I wouldn’t main event WrestleMania and, well… we’ll get to that.)

“I would like you to pursue this. I’m offering you a spot in the program and I’m willing to offer you our highest scholarship.”

My eyes began to water.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

I left gobsmacked, flipping from wide-eyed wonderment to crying to joyously fist-pumping the air.

Maybe I could trust myself again. Walking through the streets of Manhattan, the place that held so much wonder to me as a six-year-old, I had a feeling I hadn’t had in a long time. Anything is possible, I thought. You just have to believe in yourself again.

Returning to Ireland with an offer from a prestigious acting school gave my mother a different perspective on my unconventional dreams. Perhaps I wasn’t pure dog shite. Maybe, by some great miracle, I actually had a spark of talent.

I had saved every penny I could while working in the airline for this exact type of opportunity.

Even so, and scholarship aside, living in New York City for the two-year duration of the course without having a visa to work was still far beyond my means, so ultimately I didn’t enroll in the program. And while I would have to pivot with my plans, the biggest hurdle—my mother’s disapproval—had been jumped, and it felt like I was open to a world of opportunities now.

Back at the drawing board, I found a course that seemed to be the best of all worlds. If I got in, I would get a theatre degree from the Dublin Institute of Technology, so my mother could be happy I was getting a college education. Plus, I would get to study what I wanted, and what’s more, they had an exchange program with Columbia College in Chicago. So I could get over to America after all!

Of course this would all depend on whether I could finagle a spot from over one thousand applicants for one of twenty-five spots.

Finagle I did and promptly began wrapping things up with the airline. However, as the clock began to tick down, the thought that I would be stuck studying for the next three years began to terrify me.

Surely I should be out there, making something of myself. Doing more. Exploring the world.

Stop! The time will pass anyway, you dope, I reasoned with myself.

Only this time, no matter how hard things got, I could not quit. If an opportunity presented itself to me, I could take it, but I had resolved to not drop out of things anymore when they got tough. My mom was right about that.

The time had come for my final flight with Aer Lingus.

It was my favorite trip, the 105 to New York. After two and a half years working as a flight attendant, I finally had a pep in my step again knowing that this chapter would soon be over.

During a short work break, I sat down in the back on a crate as people asked me about what I was going to do next.

“Do you really think you’re going to find a job better than this?” asked an arrogant lanky northerner.

“I just feel like I need to try something new,” I responded, still meek as a little chipmunk.

“I think you’re making a mistake. You’re not going to get a better job than this.”

“Yes, James, you wanker. I will find a better job than handing out peanuts in a metal tube” is what I wish I had said. What I really said was “Well, we’ll see.”

I didn’t give a fuck what this prick thought, which was a new revelation in itself. I had spent the last few years caring about what everyone thought.

That further sealed the deal. I was finally gaining some confidence back.

I was going to have an exciting life. Even if it meant mistakes. Even if it meant falling flat on my face. Hell, I was craving a fuckup as much as anything else. This playing-it-safe, straddling-the-fence kind of existence felt like living in quicksand and I wanted out.

I waved goodbye to the life in the green uniform and the secure, pensionable job that had provided for me—not just in the last couple of years, but that fed me as a child, and I was aware of the new luxury it afforded me. My time at Aer Lingus gave me the chance to dream again and the confirmation that I would never be normal, no matter how many rules I followed.

And now it was time to hang out with some teenage theatre kids.