All the World's a Stage and It's Curtains for Me

It’s desperation, I suppose. That’s all I can come up with for an explanation. Why else would a reasonable, somewhat intelligent woman put herself through such a thing? Again?!!

Yep. It’s gotta be Desperation, with a capital ‘D’.


Once more, I will be performing a comedy routine to benefit a good cause. Coming up in November (firm date to be announced soon) I will be standing up on a stage, microphone in hand, making a complete and total idiot of myself. A small part of me—a very small part—is looking forward to the event, for if I am successful, it will give me the best feeling in the world. If I am able to cause laughter--and lots of it--I will have eased someone’s burden for a short while. And if there is a sell-out, standing-room-only crowd, I will have also helped to fund a cause in which I believe, and which truly deserves support.

So, I feel a modicum of anticipation. After all, I’m a human being, and what living, breathing woman doesn’t like to know that she might actually be able to kill two birds with one stone? That she might be able to brighten someone’s day AND contribute to a worthwhile endeavor at the same time?

But…

What’s the opposite of ‘modicum’? How do I convey the awesome dread and nervousness that is the lion’s share of the sentiment felt when I think about doing live stand-up again? Every time I survive one of these events, I swear I will NEVER DO IT AGAIN. Never! Not for as long as I live, and probably not for a short while afterwards, either. Each time, as I’m driving home from a show, I say, “You couldn’t pay me enough to put myself through that again!” (A quick aside. I have never been paid for standing in front of a crowd and entertaining them. I’m pretty sure there’s a reason for that. It might very well be that I suck…) (Another quick aside. I hate the word ‘suck’ and won’t allow my kids to say it. However, I can’t seem to come up with another word that is quite as apropos…)

Aw, heck. Not only do I suck as a humorist, I am a sucky mother, too.

See? See what I mean? This stuff gets me all discombobulated. Out of sorts. And in the week preceding one of these affairs, I am NOT a pleasure to live with, either. Just ask Mr. Grumbles and the Grumblettes. Actually, scratch that. There’s really no sense in hearing their side of things, is there? After all, they’re biased. They think a wife and mother ought to be sweet and pleasant, and speak in something less than a snarl. They don’t understand why a woman might lock herself in her room as she paces and practices and tries to suck in her stomach while standing in front of a mirror which she swears she never gazes into. They still harbor the fantasy of a matriarch who cooks their meals, kisses them good night, and asks after their welfare. So in reality… asking for their opinion is pointless, wouldn’t you say?

Oh, man… what have I done?

Stay tuned, won’t you? You just might have a seat in the front row of history. You may actually watch a woman not only self-destruct, but take a whole organization of good people with her as she plummets to the ground in flames.

Each member of the Friends of the Highland Mountains has become a personal friend of mine. I can only hope I make them a little bit proud.

Failing that, I hope I can make them some money.