Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (66 page)

My best bet, I decided, was to keep right on dancing. Here’s the kicker: In order to make us look even more long and luscious, the Rockettes danced in high heels. Try simply walking in one high heel and one flat foot. Awkward. I had to dance on tiptoe with the bare foot in order to maintain fairly equal footing with the shod foot. Put yourself in my shoes (or “shoe”), for a moment, if you will. Embarrassing? Yeah. Distressing? You bet. Pretty? Not at all.

The audience continued to point and giggle, following me throughout the dance. To top that off, word spread like wild fire backstage that “Kristi lost her shoe!” Soon every cast and crew member possible flooded into the wings and joined in chuckling and watching to see how I was going to manage to finish the number. The day had been a disaster even before my shoe went airborne. And now all this to boot? I felt like I’d been kicked when I was already down.

As I waited for the other shoe to drop, however, I suddenly had an awareness: I had a choice in how I was going to respond. I could become even more upset and stressed out than I already was, or I could decide, “Shoe fly? Don’t bother me!” After all, it was downright hilarious. A huge grin spread across my face—a wider, and certainly wackier looking, smile than the Rockettes were legally allowed. Then I burst out laughing and didn’t stop until well after the number was over. That footwear “fiasco” didn’t break the camel’s back after all; it broke the ice. Everyone—audience, cast, and crew alike—relaxed, had a good laugh at my expense, and lightened up. We finished the show in true Christmas spirit.

Another favorite backstage event, which wasn’t a mishap by any means, happened near the end of our “Soldier” number. We had just lined up like dominoes, facing stage left, in preparation for the famous “soldier fall.” Audrey, being the shortest girl, stood at the front of the line, close to the wings. At that very moment, her boyfriend (a stage hand),who had been waiting in the wings, got down on one knee, diamond ring in hand, and held up a sign that read, “Audrey, will you marry me?” Of course, Audrey had to wait patiently until the fall was over to jump his bones and say, “Yes!” Those special backstage moments were precious.

*******

Christmas was my favorite holiday, and I was elated to be doing the Christmas show again. For two solid months, we were absolutely inundated with Christmas—music, costumes, decorations, merchandise, gifts, parties, and events. It was Christmas on steroids, and I was high with the holiday spirit. Since Christmas also happened to be my son’s birthday, it was an exceptionally magical time as well.

The Rockettes almost had to perform for half-time for the Detroit Lions’ football game on Christmas day, our day off. I nearly cried when our producer, Brian Kauffman, brought up the idea. “It’s Christmas! And it’s my son’s first birthday! Please, don’t make us do it!” I begged and groveled. Enough of the Rockettes also preferred to have Christmas off, so Brian (who was not only highly professional and respected but kind as well) nixed the idea and I was off the hook. Some days should be sacred in my book—Christmas and my kids’ birthdays being top of the list. (By the way, Brian was so thoughtful that on occasion he even cooked homemade soup for the entire cast. We adored him.)

We did have Christmas Eve performances, however. As soon as I got home from the theatre, I went into Mommy mode, stuffing stockings, wrapping presents, and baking birthday cake. My wonderful mother stayed up with me until the wee hours of the morning making ladybug cupcakes for Kieran’s birthday. Juggling motherhood and career was a challenge that certainly took its toll on me, but I was determined to bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.

With daily matinee and evening performances (as well as some
three-show
Saturdays), plus publicity events before or between shows, holiday festivities, and family obligations, I was running on empty. Unfortunately, I was hardly ever home and neither was Ron, because he had gotten a job working as a stage hand for the Detroit Auto Show. We were raking in the dough, but my fabulous parents were the ones babysitting Kieran most of the time.

A few days after Christmas, our show came to a close. Even though I had consistently pigged out and pumped my body full of chocolates and sugary treats, I still got down to skin and bones by the end of the season. My B-cups deflated, and my clothes fit me like I was a wire hanger. The entire month of January my body craved meat and proper food. I couldn’t get enough. It was as if I had starved myself and my body was trying to replenish its fat supplies. Some Rockettes didn’t like to do the show specifically because they’d always lose so much weight. Others did it precisely so they could look good naked. Whatever the case, although part of me was sad to see the show end, I needed to recover, rest, nurse my scrawny body back to health, and spend quality time with my family again.

*******

Ron and I had no solid plans for what we were going to do with our lives going forward. We simply knew we wanted to rejuvenate somewhere warm by the water. “California is so expensive,” we grumbled. “What about Florida?” Ron had dug the Ft. Lauderdale area in the past, so we targeted south Florida on the Atlantic coast for some fun in the sun. After a week of apartment hunting and driving around the southeast side of the Sunshine State, we settled on Del Rey Beach, a small, charming seaside town boasting four miles of beautiful Atlantic beachfront, north of Ft. Lauderdale and south of West Palm Beach. Ft. Lauderdale was a fantastic site for some drunken debauchery during spring break from college, but sleepy Del Rey seemed a more appropriate setting for raising a youngster. We found an apartment within walking distance of the ocean. Ron and I flew back to Michigan, packed our stuff into a moving van, and drove down south to set up house. Then Grandma and Grandpa flew with baby Kieran to meet us in our new home.

Moving so far from friends and family with a toddler and no secured employment was risky. Thankfully, Ron soon found a job as the pool manager at an exclusive, private yacht club in Palm Beach. I became a stay-at-home mom for the next nine months. While not particularly in dance shape, at least I stayed skinny from chasing after Kieran, who constantly ran away from me. Every day I also power walked several miles pushing Kieran in his baby jogger on the paths along the beach. When he napped, I would work out to yoga or aerobics videos in my apartment. Finally I found an adult ballet class I could take once or twice a week. My body didn’t want to do what it used to do, and I was frustrated by my backwards progress. Dance takes daily discipline and regular practice, and I was rusty.

When October rolled around, Kieran and I returned to Detroit, so I could do the
Radio City Christmas Spectacular
again. There was no quicker way to whip myself into shape than by plunging into rehearsals seven hours a day, ready or not. The process was painful and exhausting, but eventually my muscles adjusted to the rigorous routine. I was proud of myself for being able to keep up with the youngsters and perform such intense choreography at age thirty-five after birthing a baby. As we continued into performances, however, my body was on the verge of rebellion. The jump splits and repetitive kicks were taking a toll. I felt like I was on the brink of getting injured. “How long can my hip flexors hold out?” I worried.

I had to face the facts: My body was aging, and it was hard to age gracefully in the world of entertainment, especially if you were a woman. Women in general feel the pressure to look young, and entertainers feel it a million times more. After about age twenty-seven, we didn’t want to admit how old we were anymore. We had to practice telling our “showbiz” age—the one we made up (and it should never be older than twenty-nine)—with a straight face. Although I looked younger, I had just turned thirty when I joined the Rockettes, but I was told that Radio City preferred their dancers to look about twenty-three.

The Rockettes had a reputation for harboring “old” ladies (forty-plus years of age), so the media loved to pry and ask our age, especially if we looked old enough to buy our own alcohol without getting carded. Five years and a toddler later, I didn’t look like I had any recollection of being twenty-three. So I was always skirting the age issue and having to say to reporters, “I’m old enough to have children and young enough to do those eye-high kicks!” It got to be a little depressing. What I really wanted to say was, “I’m thirty-flippin’-five. I popped out a baby, lost thirty-eight pounds, and was back on stage dancing in a bikini in less than three months. I can still work a skin-tight leotard cut up to my waist. I’m up at 6:00 a.m. (after finally getting to bed around one a.m.) changing diapers and making bottles. I’m still dancing with the most famous precision dance troupe in the world and keeping up with eighteen-year-olds, and I look pretty darn good. You put on this skimpy costume and see how sexy you look!”

Realizing that this might well be one of the last opportunities for Kieran to see his mommy perform as a Rockette, Grandma and Grandpa brought him to the show. Two-and-a-half hours was a long time to expect an energetic, not-quite-yet-two-years-old toddler to sit still and be quiet. Kieran lasted the entire production. He loved the show but cried every time I left the stage. I don’t know how he could even find me in that line-up of ladies who all looked the same. At times he got restless and complained during “Nativity,” but many adults can’t sit through that one either. When he saw me perform with the Rockettes on television for the Detroit Thanksgiving Day Parade, he ran up to the TV, banged his fists on the screen, and screamed, “Mommy, no!” Apparently, he thought I was stuck in that box and was not coming back. 

On the final day of our run at The Fox, I knew that this might be my last show as a Rockette. Constantly relocating my son was getting harder and harder. Being a full-time mom and staying in competitive dance shape was difficult. While performing that final show, I made a conscious effort to take it all in. I gazed at the audience. I studied the gorgeous, gilded Fox Theatre. Tears welled up in my eyes, as I listened to the applause and tried to memorize how it all felt. I didn’t want to take any of it for granted. “This may be the last time I get to be on this side of the stage,” I acknowledged woefully.

Back in the dressing room, my Rockette friend asked me, “Where are you planning on doing the show next Christmas, Kristi?” “Maybe I’ll be on maternity leave,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye, surprising myself at the statement that had spilled out of my mouth. My husband and I hadn’t planned on having more children yet. Slowly and methodically, I removed my make-up, savoring the ritual. I gathered my belongings from the dressing room and pulled my name and photos off my mirror. I was one of the last to leave, not wanting it all to end. I walked out the stage door and heard it close solidly behind me.

Kieran and I returned to Daddy and our rental place in Florida. We decided it was time to put our money to good use and buy a house. Soon after we started looking I found out I was pregnant! It looked like my career would be slowing down for certain. I contemplated doing the Christmas show that year, but with the baby due in September and rehearsals starting in October or November 1 at the latest, I realized it would be impossible for me to get back into shape in time.

Instead, I took a year off for maternity leave, and that September, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl named Kara! (Thalia’s crystal’s prediction had been correct, not only for me but also for Leslie who had two boys.) By the time she was four months old, I was eager to work again and started taking ballet classes to get back in shape. The Christmas show was still nine months away. I phoned Radio City to let them know I was available to teach the Rockette Experience. It was a long shot, as the waiting list of interested teachers was a mile long and most of them lived in New York. But I had to try. Then I ordered a subscription to
Backstage
to see what other kind of work options I had. “Maybe I could fly to New York to audition for something. Maybe a show will be coming to Florida. Who knows the possibilities?” I just knew I desperately missed performing and needed to get back to it.

Like a virgin, reliving the excitement and anticipation of the very first time I touched a
Backstage
newspaper in search of performance opportunities, I eagerly turned the pages only to be rudely awakened to the discovery that everyone wanted eighteen to thirty-five-year-olds. “But I was thirty-five just last year before I had the baby! What happened?” I blurted aloud, my tykes wide eyed over their ranting mommy. Time had flown by faster than I could count “a five, six, seven, eight.” That’s what happened. Somehow I had forgotten or failed to realize that, like a carton of milk or a can of tuna, a dancer came with an expiration date, and I was already spoiled goods. One moment I was reaching my peak and the next I was over the hill. “At least I still have the Rockettes,” I reminded myself, temporarily relieved.

But no sooner had I recommitted myself to my show business career than all hell broke loose and loads of information started pouring in regarding Radio City’s mission to disband the Roster. My phone rang off the hook, the Rockette hotline dispersing gossip cross country. My computer was bombarded with conflicting and confusing e-mail from various sources. My mailbox was loaded with persuasive letters from Radio City and Cablevision, opposing rhetoric from A.G.V.A., the union representing the Rockettes, and retaliation from enraged Rostered Rockettes. Our boisterous battle made the morning television news shows and CNN. Matters were coming to a head and the tension was thick. There was even talk of a strike. I breathed a heavy sigh, sensing that my time as a Rockette was nearly over.

As an almost thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, who was apparently too old to audition for other dance gigs, I also knew that once my Rockette contract ended, my dance career was completely kaput. This was a devastating prospect. Retiring from show business isn’t like retiring from most other careers. You aren’t just losing your job, you are losing your identity. You are relinquishing the consuming passion that drove you to risk rejection time and time again at auditions; that caused you to miss countless holidays, birthdays, and weddings with family and friends; that kept you dieting, taking ballet class, and doing an absurd amount of sit-ups; that drove you to risk financial ruin just to get the chance to
audition
to dance as a giant M&M in a candy commercial. You are giving up an enormous piece of your soul.