The Isolation Journals - Day 13

Lucky number 13.  Hope you're all ready for another arbitrary stretch of time that we used to call 'the week.'

Today's prompt comes from writer Georgia Clark:

Prompt:  I invite you to reflect on a new beginning that was meaningful for you. You might think about a literal beginning: new job, relationship, state of being (pre-child to parent, singledom to marriage). You might think about a new conviction, habit, or a crucial choice you made: when you decided to stop apologizing all the time, that summer you actually started meditating, or the day you stopped drinking. Tell the story of your new beginning. What did it make room for? Why was it important? How did your new beginning lead you to where you are today?

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To appropriate a joke from the late Mitch Hedberg, "I used to do stand-up comedy.  I still do, but I used to, too."

For obvious reasons, comedy in front of a packed crowd isn't happening right now.  The joke is that most of us could still safely perform live without our audience breaking social distancing rules.  The joke is that my husband can't wait for quarantine to end so I'll get out of the house and let other people ignore me for a change.  

I used to be the kind of person who made vague yet overly ambitious New Year's Resolutions.  I never kept them.  For 2018, I decided my only resolution was to not make any.  Instead, I would make goals, and they would be specific and measurable.  I was drinking a lot of teacher evaluation Kool-Aid at the time, but OH YEA, was that a breakthrough.

At the top of the goal list:  Perform stand-up comedy at least once.  That's all.  Just once, we'll see how it goes.  It might be a hot mess, but it's important to try.

All throughout January, I worked on a set.  It was the Infinite Jest of comedy sets - grandiose and way too damn long.  It clocked in around 15 minutes, at least triple the length a first-timer is allotted at an open mic.

In February, I pared it down.  In March, I revised jokes that had already grown stale.  On Monday, April 2nd, I declared, "Fuck it, let's do this."  Actually, it was probably way less brazen, more like, "Let's just go there, and scope out the space...maybe see what happens..."  But this is my memory and I'll take some liberties, thank you.

We arrived early, and I was one of the first comics to sign up.  I remember feeling strangely calm and comfortable.  The beer didn't hurt, but I think it was mainly the other, more experienced comics.  They were shockingly encouraging and just so nice.  It dawned on me that even if I was the actual worst of all time, nobody was going to jump me in the alley afterwards, tell me not to show my face around there no more.  It helped that this was Greenville, South Carolina and not like, New Jersey, where someone might jump you in the alley just because they enjoyed your set.  But I digress.

The moment arrived.  I took the stage and waited a beat for catastrophe - would I forget my entire set?  Would I crap my pants (not the remotest of possibilities, if we're being honest)?  Would anyone heckle?  Any one of those things could have happened, or, god forbid, all three.  But it was actually...a total blast?

I was not good by any stretch, but there were laughs and no one died.  It was the most exhilarating, fun thing I have ever done.  Some nights are better than others, but I never regret getting up there.  I can't wait to be able to do it again.  What does that say about me that my favorite activity involves the threat of public humiliation?  Don't answer that.  That was rhetorical - crowd work isn't really my thing.

Alright, that's my time, you guys have been great.  Let's get our host back up here, and remember to tip your bartender!