I was onstage for the final piece in the final show of our fall studio concert series when I realized that my costume’s zipper had failed to function.

The author getting ready backstage with Todd Rosenlieb. Photo | Wendy Maness

My white briefs were peeking out of the left side of my elegant off-white costume.

Now there are many pieces in the TRDance repertoire in which showing a little brief is no big deal. In fact, earlier in the concert, to the sassy strains of Sammy Davis Jr., I stand on a chair and toss my leg over my head, bopping with the arse in the air for eight whole counts. But “Classic Kite Tails,” which Erick Hawkins created in 1972, is a different piece entirely. There’s something about it that’s the closest I come in my mundane life to holy. It strives for an American classic feel—an Aaron Copeland, salt-of-the-earth elegance. Hopeful, hardworking people coming together for an evening dance in the town square in a simpler time. Before the music begins, the cast members—five women and two men—enter ceremonially one by one, like a cross between distinguished guests at a party and novitiates. They seat themselves on black sculptures that line the stage, and the dance begins.

Our studio concert series takes place at our building at 325 Granby, the same place where I stumble in every morning wearing a leotard and scruffy tights and sweat for several hours. But when the music of “Classic Kite Tails” fills the air and the stage lights shine down, I’m in that different place.

That place is the reason I dance.

When I was a kid, I was really pissed off that I couldn’t get whisked off to Narnia and live in enchanted magical lands. I realized even back then that within the three walls of the theater, I could invent worlds and live in them. So you can see why I was horrified to plummet back from my joyful, pure moment to find myself thinking about whether the audience could see my Hanes. Sitting for a moment on one of the black sculptures, I did a quick and panicked assessment. No R-rated body parts were hanging out, though the left seam of my costume was open down to my hip. So I danced the next section, a pleasant and dignified grin on my face and an arm covering my side, and then I skimmed offstage to repair my zipper, aided by a fellow company member and our heroic stage manager who were standing by with pins. I made it on for my next cue and remained clad for the rest of the evening.

"Tether Light, Tether Dark" by Todd Rosenlieb

Deborah Thorpe, the president of our board of directors, told me that I wasn’t allowed to stop all the audience members after the show and ask each of them if they saw my underwear.

While I was mentally castigating myself and replaying the whole event fifty times in my head to decide whether I did the right thing/punish myself further, I thought of a line from the movie A League of Their Own. Everyone’s sitting around trying to figure out how to bring in fans and save women’s baseball, and Madonna, a.k.a. “All the Way May,” cries out, “What if in a key moment in the game, my uniform bursts open, and oops my bosoms come flying out? That ought to draw a crowd.” To which Rosie O’Donnell replies, “You think there are men in this country who ain’t seen your bosoms?”

Well, there are certainly men in Norfolk who ain’t seen my bosoms. And god knows every arts organization could use a crowd right now. So perhaps in the future I will think of this moment as the time I took one for the team. As in: “Come see TRDance—you’ll probably see underwear.

These things happen in the performing arts. Part of the beauty of that world created by the lights and the curtain is that it’s so tenuous. We hold it together with tape and straining muscles.

For the rest of the piece that night, I felt very free. After all, the audience had already seen me in my underwear.

For more information on upcoming performances from Todd Rosenlieb Dance, go to www.trdance.org.