I think the main problem I had in my youthful acting days was that I never seemed to be quite what anyone wanted me to be. And when you’re 22, you don’t have the confidence to just be yourself, because you’re not exactly sure who that is.

God knows I tried to do what they wanted. I Nair’ed off my eyebrows (don’t try this at home; later I’ll tell you how I finally – after 5 years! -- learned the secret of growing them back from a most unexpected source), laboriously straightened my hair, dieted strenuously (anybody out there remember liquid protein?), wore stepladder heels resulting in several sprained ankles, and mutilated myself in various and sundry other humiliating ways.

To be an actress, you need headshots. The first photographer I hired was apparently used to photographing models – I don’t think he knew how to relate to anyone who didn't look like an underfed giraffe. I tried smiling for the camera. He looked up from the lens and admonished me, “Don’t smile!” “Why not?” I asked. “Your smile doesn’t work!” he declared. I still don’t know what he meant by that. (At least he didn’t mention my nose.) The resulting portrait is pretty scary…I’m wearing enough makeup to perform Kabuki drama, and look like I eat flesh for fun. I still have this photo if anyone wants to see it; those of you who know what I look like now might find it amusing, to say the least.

Armed with my scary flesh-eating headshots, I paid a visit to a high-powered commercial agent in town. This harpy, ashtray overflowing on her desk and cigarette dangling from one side of her mouth, took one look at me and rasped, “Well, you’ll never be thin enough. But maybe you should gain 75 or 80 pounds – you could work a lot as a fat actress. The main one in town has heart disease, and you could step right into her spot.” This was appalling on so many levels – the actress in question was doing quite well appearing in commercials as “The Cash Station Fairy,” being flown around on a wire holding a wand and clad in a tutu, pink tights and a tiara. I’d be willing to guess that this was probably not what she had envisioned when she was studying Shakespeare and Chaucer, but it had to be lucrative nonetheless.

But I really didn’t feel that being a 300-pound actress was the statement I wanted to make (not casting any aspersions on the obese here -- I temporarily joined their ranks a couple of decades later, and can certainly relate). I politely refrained from suggesting that she might want to consider electrolysis on that Snidely Whiplash mustache she was sporting. And thank God she didn’t mention my nose. (I should add here that “The Cash Station Fairy” did succumb to heart disease a few years later, but not before I had served as her understudy a few times and gotten to know her a little. She was a lovely woman.)

Speaking of understudying, I got a few jobs doing that, and there is probably no more stressful job in the theatre. Not to mention that most of the time, I had to be padded out to fit into the costumes of whatever fat actress I was understudying that month. Not exactly a strong motivation to lose weight! One time I was understudying a real famewhore whose character was pregnant. She was determined not to give me any opportunity to go on for her – so much so that one night she went onstage with a slipped disk and ruined the show by clutching her back and moaning between every line. Having practiced with a pregnancy pillow for several weeks, I was a little miffed.

Another time, I was ludicrously cast as an 11 year-old and had to be bound. All I can say about that is that FBI interrogators should take a good look at that as a torture technique. It hurt like hell and I could barely move, as it was impossible to breathe. One night on stage, the big safety pin holding the three rolls of Arnica tape broke, and not only did the pin puncture my flesh, but the tape giving way gave my chest a sudden and interesting “puppies fighting under a blanket” appearance. I matured very fast on stage that day!

But lest you think I never had any luck, I got my first professional acting job in the theatre because of a sweater that had shrunk in the wash.

My roommate at the time was a slightly psychotic, egomaniacal and overly ambitious actress I’ll call Chloe. Her real name was a fairly interesting and memorable one – why she later changed it to something generic like “Jane Jones,” (not the name she chose) I will never understand. Maybe she had entered the Witness Protection Program -- a possibility I wouldn’t rule out. (Apologies to anyone named “Jane Jones” out there. g) Anyway, we had just moved into our ramshackle apartment in the city, and she insisted that I accompany her to an audition in a “bad” part of town. I had no intention of auditioning, but obediently tagged along. At the last minute I threw on a sweater I had just washed which I discovered was now embarrassingly tight, but I figured it didn’t matter because I wasn’t auditioning anyway.

It was a huge cattle call, and a loooong evening. At one point, camped out in the hallway with my book, a young guy came out of the audition room and sat down next to me, lighting a cigarette and giving me the once-over. “Are you an actress?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m not auditioning.” “Why not?” he wanted to know. “Oh, I’m new here and not really ready to be doing that just yet,” I replied. “Well,” he said, “I’m with the theatre and maybe you could just come in and help us out by reading with people? The producers are getting bored reading the parts.” Well, it sounded like fun to me, and I was tired of my book, so I did it.

I bet you can guess what happened next. That young guy was the director. I got called back, and my roommate didn’t (and – literally – didn’t speak to me for a month). It turned out that they were looking for a bosomy wench for a Molière play, and nobody was…um…filling the bill. I often wish I’d kept that sweater.

The callback the next night lasted for hours. From 200 people, they winnowed it down to 8. Finally, at 1:00 in the morning, they called us survivors back into the room and told us we were “it.” I was sleepy, just wanted to go home, and had no idea what “it” meant. I had to call the theatre the next day and have someone explain it to me. Needless to say, I was thrilled.

So, for once, I was exactly what someone wanted! Imagine that. A shame that trend didn’t continue.