Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (67 page)

And so it was under such suspenseful circumstances that I received a crucial call from Rockette Headquarters at Radio City. “Kristi, you’re next on the list to teach the Rockette Experience. Can you be in New York in two weeks?” The opportunity had arisen just in the nick of time. Heeding the call from H.Q., I mustered the troops and briefed them on my upcoming deployment. “Kids, Mommy is being sent on special assignment and has to go bye-bye for a little bit.” In response to this entertainment emergency, I left my precious progeny in the hands of my husband and boarded a flight to JFK International Airport in NYC to do the divine deed, most likely my final duty as a World Famous Radio City Rockette.

Another Rockette arrived in the Green Room. She was younger and newer to the Rockettes than I and, as such, was slated to teach the Rockette Experience in the small rehearsal hall, while I was assigned a bigger group in the big rehearsal hall. We did the requisite, traditional bonding ritual of name-dropping in search of mutual dancer friends, then compared choreography notes and ideas for how to run our respective sessions. After running through the dance combos several times, I stretched so I could kick to my head. It had been nearly a year and a half since I had danced in the Christmas show, and the choreography did not feel second nature anymore. The nice man returned to get us. “Ladies, you’re on!”

The rehearsal hall hummed with eager, nervous students from all over the country, stretching and anticipating the afternoon ahead. They weren’t the only ones who were nervous. This was a massive, unfamiliar undertaking for me, and I wanted to live up to their expectations. It was strange realizing I had accomplished something these dancers dearly wanted. I was living their dream: I was a Rockette. At least I was for one more day. Before I could set my dance bag down, I was approached by three scholarship students from Broadway Dance Center, the place where I had attended my first professional dance audition. “We’re your dance assistants for the day and will help you with whatever you need,” a young lady explained. The trio was at my beck and call. They would fetch water, handle my sheet music, and organize my audition score papers. I had been a scholarship student once myself years ago, and now I had students assisting me. Fantastic!

Then a friendly, middle-aged man walked up and extended his hand for a handshake. “I’m Gordon, the musical director for the Christmas show. I’ll be your accompanist for today. Have you got your music with you?” I handed him the score, and we discussed where I’d be starting and stopping. The actual musical director and orchestra conductor for the
Radio City Christmas Spectacular
was
my
pianist, kindly taking orders from me. I was overwhelmed at my sudden change of status and loving every minute of it. Like Cinderella, I was Queen of the Ball for a day, all the while aware that, at the stroke of midnight, this fairy-tale existence would end.

“Hello, Ladies! Welcome to the Rockette Experience. I’m Kristi, your instructor. Today, I’ll be teaching you excerpts from two numbers in the Rockette repertoire and, of course, we will work on performing the famous kickline. We’ll start with a tap number we call ‘Wreaths’ and will then change into our character shoes to learn a section from ‘Christmas in New York.’ Sound good?” The young dancers were focused, attentive, quiet, respectful, and hanging on my every word. Within the group were varying levels of dance abilities, but everyone seemed to be trying their hardest. Their relative lack of skill and experience made me recognize how far I had come since my first time dancing in New York.

The afternoon flew by. The participants weren’t yet comfortable with the choreography or polished, but they’d have to get used to performing well despite lack of practice when auditioning in the future anyway. To start our mock audition, my dance assistants gave each girl a number to pin onto her leotard, just like she’d get in a real audition. Then smaller groups of six or so performed the choreography, one group at a time, as I scored them on their own personal score cards. This time I was the expert. The dancers tried to impress me like I had tried to impress so many casting people over the course of my career. “So this is what it feels like to be on the other side of the table,” I thought. I was rooting for them all to do their best, and didn’t want to judge any of them. I simply wanted to tell them, “Have fun! Enjoy dancing! Sparkle! Shine!” Which of these starry-eyed girls will take my job, fill my tap shoes, and be able to meet the challenges, survive the hardships, and stay passionate about show business? Which one of these young ladies has the entertainer’s gene? Is destined for fame? Has performing in her blood? Time would tell.

Sadly, we ran out of time for the question-and-answer session. I was disappointed, because I wanted to share my story. I had so much I wanted to say about pursuing your dreams despite fear or failure, enjoying the journey, and not taking any of it for granted. Having learned so much about show business, I could have filled an entire book, maybe two. Instead, I briefly answered a few simple queries, as the girls lined up for photographs. Pulling out my special black marker, I signed my autograph on dance bags, T-shirts, audition score cards, and commemorative programs in indelible ink. For one final instant, I was famous. I thanked my lucky stars, my Fairy Godmother, my parents, and myself for making my dreams come true. This had been one spectacular, wacky, sexy adventure.

“Was that really your last day as a Rockette?” you may be questioning. Alas, that was my final public appearance; I never kicked up my heels as a Rockette again. A new day was dawning and the Roster disbanded. In exchange, however, I accepted a sizable retirement package. Surprisingly, that Roster audition I had thrown a hissy-fit over in Vegas years earlier yielded me financial benefits beyond my wildest expectations. Stay open to the miracles, friends. When one stage door closes, another door opens. Luckily for me, that new door led right into the bank.

However, while grateful for the substantial severance pay, I still felt a colossal pit in my stomach and a crack in my heart upon hearing the news that we had officially lost our contract negotiations. That single phone call signified the end of my dance career. Getting kicked out of the Rockettes meant more than relinquishing my vocation; I was simultaneously stripped of sequins, status, stardom, security, insurance, and my self-identity. So were many of my fellow Rockettes. Even our parents, spouses, boyfriends, children, and friends were lamenting the loss of our fame, as it was indirectly their fame, too. I didn’t want to go back to being the regular Joe Shmoe (Josie Shmosie?) I had worked so hard not to be. What was I going to do with my life now? I grieved. Heavily. This was not an uncommon reaction; every performer I knew went through a mourning period of at least a year after they retired; for some it was devastating. Dancers often don’t have the same desire or passion for their next career as they did for performing. Would I?

Fortunately, days later, in spite of the grief, I began to feel relief. For this was also a time of self-reflection. I realized that I had accomplished my goal of being a professional entertainer of the highest caliber. Along with that realization came a sense of contentment I don’t ever recall feeling. I had actually accomplished my dreams! BIG dreams! A weight had been lifted off my shoulders. All these years I had put pressure on myself to be competitive in jazz, tap, ballet, modern, singing, and acting. To be in shape, thin, and beautiful. To keep myself looking in my twenties, or at least my early thirties. Who can do that for long? I begged to age gracefully and naturally, to not fight every pound, wrinkle, crease, and crow’s foot. Part of me was simply relieved to let go of the stresses of performing and arriving at the theatre on time every night. No more glancing at my watch every two minutes to make sure I didn’t miss the show.

In truth, by the time I turned thirty-five, I also wasn’t nearly as willing to embarrass myself playing dorky parts. I resisted performing knee drops, jump splits, or any move that could permanently damage my body. I felt silly having to act like a sex kitten at an audition. (I was married with children, for goodness sake!) I no longer desired being cast in the chorus and was over living from paycheck to paycheck. I envied my “normal” friends who had scored real nine-to-five careers right out of college, had gorgeous homes, cars, retirement plans, and college funds for their children to show for it—and could afford to pay full price to see the show that I was in.

The starving artist thing had been adventurous, exciting, and motivating when I was young. Now I was less enthralled with the gypsy life. I wanted a real home where I could hang my top hat and tap shoes. A place where I could permanently display all the trinkets I had picked up on my travels. Because as much as a showbiz career fulfills you for twenty years or so, by the time you are thirty-five or forty, you will probably be craving stability and relationships. At least I was. In the past, I had never wanted to spend more than a few months in the same place and certainly didn’t want the responsibility of owning a house. Today I covet those very things. Even mega stars reach a point in their lives where they want to nest with a mate and some offspring. Despite all they’ve got, they still aren’t fulfilled without someone to love and a place to call home.

So the transient life style got harder and less appealing to me as time went by, especially after I was married with kids. The logistics of packing up the family to travel from job to job became increasingly difficult, expensive, and exhausting, and it certainly wasn’t in the best interests of my little tykes. Plus, theatre gigs are generally nights and weekends—prime family time. The older I got, the more important it was to me to be free to spend holidays, birthdays, and special events with loved ones.

Given all this ranting and raving about the positive side of retiring from an entertainment career, I will now declare that I will never completely leave showbiz. You’ll have to pull me away from the stage kicking and screaming. I don’t care to wear an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie-rhinestone-studded red bikini anymore, but you can bet that I’ll find some way to perform, entertain, choreograph, direct, teach, or create. I may be behind the scenes (with my behind fully covered, unseen), but I still love the theatre and don’t intend to completely bow out (gracefully or otherwise).

Before aspiring entertainers make that faithful leap into showbiz, we don’t always adequately ponder or premeditate the realities of the future, how short our careers could be, or what we will do when they’re over. We are so compelled to be dancers, singers, or actors that nothing will stop us—no amount of reasoning, depressing statistics, or pleas from our well-meaning families to be practical and realistic. Consequently, this forced retirement left me high and dry without a Plan B.

So, I settled down to focus on my family and squeeze as much joy out of my precious time with them as I could. Having a baby and a three-year-old to raise kept me plenty busy, no doubt, but my life couldn’t have been more opposite to the free-spirited, highly social, world-traveling life of fame and entertainment I had known. Although I adored my tiny tots and was grateful for the opportunity to stay home with them, I sorely missed the life of glitz and glamour I had attained and then abandoned.

And so I started writing this book. Writing gave me a way to stay connected to show business while I was home changing diapers and making bottles. Whenever I had a spare moment, I’d type away, laughing and reliving the memories, cherishing the adventures all over again. I had so much to say! My sister —a successful, savvy screenwriter—told me I shouldn’t write a book if my goal was to make money. That advice derailed me for a spell. While I absolutely loved my time writing and had much to share with the world, why go through all the effort for nothing?

So, playing Mommy became my main role and writing a pleasurable pastime. But to earn income, I started teaching dance classes in the evenings at a wonderful local dance school. Choreographing and fostering our next generation of performers was rewarding, but I realized it wasn’t what I wanted to do full time.

Most unfortunately, a few years later (hate to break the sad news), my Love Boat romance capsized and my marriage sank. With my relationship with Ron on the rocks, my showbiz career (as I knew it) over, teaching dance not a full-time option, and making money on my book a long shot (or so I thought), I decided I’d better go back to the drawing board and envision a new plan for my talents and passions. Time to reinvent myself.

Somewhat magically, I was introduced to the field of
drama therapy
—a type of psychotherapy that purposefully uses theatre and drama techniques for personal growth, behavior change, and healing. Wow! Who knew this fantastic modality existed? This career path combined my interest in psychology (you might remember I got a psych degree back in 1987) with my love of theatre. The stars seem to be aligned. I set the book aside, went to graduate school, and trained to become a
drama therapist
, so I could use theatre, creative arts, and holistic health education to inspire people to overcome obstacles, pursue their dreams, and become the happy, healthy, loved, and wealthy superstars they were designed to be. Of course, I continued to teach the odd dance class and choreograph a musical now and then to get my theatre fix!

“But what about the book?” you are wondering. Thanks for asking. After three years of writing grad school papers (including a whopping 350-page Master’s thesis), I couldn’t bear to type one more syllable. Yet, amidst divorce, eight years of single motherhood, serious health challenges, graduate school, several moves, a tornado destroying our home (I didn’t meet Glinda the Good Witch or the Wizard of Oz, how twisted is that?), unemployment, starting a business, a new marriage, and loads of laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, and dishwashing, the book kept calling to be written. It tugged and tugged and tugged at my sleeve. It begged to be birthed. I had to appease this pesky publication once and for all. The book is finally finished and is in good hands—yours. I hope you got as much of a kick out of my wacky, sexy journey as I did.

Although I am retired, the Rockettes have remained a special part of my life. Not only am I a member of the fabulous Rockette Alumnae Association (where I actually met a woman who had danced in the 1940s!), but I also stay in touch with many of my guy and gal pals from the Vegas and Branson shows. To this day, we continue to support each other during tough times and celebrate each other’s happy life milestones, many flying across the country to attend weddings, baby showers, college graduations, and fortieth or fiftieth birthday parties during which a sparkling birthday tiara gets passed on to the next glamour girl to be crowned ten years older, wiser, and more beautiful. We may no longer be linked arm and arm, but we are still connected heart to heart. To this day, I’ll phone my Rockette friends to ask their advice just like I used to back in the dressing room. I don’t know how I’d survive without them. (Another update: My once-rival, childhood dance teachers are now very good friends. Spread the love!)

A creature of habit, I still pencil my eyebrows, wear Egyptian-like eyeliner, bat my overly mascaraed eyelashes, and smile too widely. I wear high heels when it is absolutely ridiculous to do so and find any excuse to don glitter, rhinestones, or a feather boa. I use my kitchen counter as a ballet barre, secretly tap dance when waiting in line at the grocery store, and sing at the top of my lungs when driving in the car. There’s no business like show business, and I have no business letting go of my inner (or outer) showgirl. Times change, but whatever challenges are before me, I’ve learned that the show must go on. And until the final curtain falls, I intend to keep creating spectacular, wacky, sexy adventures. Encore! Encore!