Here’s the thing.
So, about seven or eight months ago, my pal Stephen Falk asked me to tell a story at a show he and the lovely Natasha Vargas-Cooper produce. I agreed to do it immediately because when cool, talented people ask you to do something, you should do it. Even if that something is one of your biggest fears. And public speaking is absolutely my biggest fear. I can count the times I’ve had to speak in front of an audience on one hand: all of them mandatory and grade-based, all of them sweaty, nervous disasters.
I think I had about six weeks to prepare for it. Which translates to me spending six weeks pretending that time had stopped moving forward. This is my usual technique for dealing with stressful or scary situations: just pretend they’re not going to happen. So far, it has a 0% success rate, but hey, I’m only 25.
A few days before the show, I came to terms with the fact that the world was going to continue to accelerate on its gravitational pull, no matter how nicely I asked it not to. I sat down and wrote out the story I wanted to tell, recorded it, and even listened to it a couple of times.
“That’s probably fine,” I told myself, still not quite ready to acknowledge the growing anxiety ball in the pit of my stomach.
I’m going to pause the story right here to say, yes, we all have fears. And yes, public speaking is ranked higher than death or disease. I never said I was original, but I will happily concede to being a pussy. A big, giant, crybaby coward pussy. I’m also twitchy and nervous. One look at my gnarled, tattered fingernails will tell you that. And you know, after high school, public speaking is something that is damn-near completely avoidable. It’s funny, the older you get, the more responsibility is supposed to be heaped on you. But, I’ve learned, it’s pretty easy to avoid things you don’t want to do. Simply run away from them. So, I’ve never really had to get over the intense panic, or hot sweats (that might just be genetic), or the feeling that every pair of eyes in the audience is shooting hot, white judgment lasers at my person. It also gets me out of a lot of boring family obligations and dinners with old friends.
I think prior to agreeing to the Public School thing; the last time I’d been up in front of people was for a mandatory speech class in college. Three speeches over the course of the quarter; three beautiful, unique panic attacks. The only one I clearly remember was the demonstration speech, where I was supposed to show the class how to bake cookies. My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t get the egg to crack. I just keep hitting it on the side of the bowl; soft and unsteady taps at first, then harder and harder until it exploded all over me. I had to fight off tears for the rest of my mumbly demonstration. I told you guys about being a pussy.
I can’t explain my timidness. Nothing about my life has been particularly hard. I’ve never really been picked on (although I went through some rough teen years before someone told me about straightening irons), and I know any feelings of social alienation are self-imposed. But I just can’t shake that fear of harsh group judgment. I have no excuse for this. And even if I did, even if had some life-scaring piss-my-pants memory, I’m mostly sure that doesn’t justify life crippling fear. Mostly.
But back to my story: we’re at The Day Of. I wake up in the morning knowing full well I’m not going to be getting on any stage that night. I don’t really know yet how it’s going to play out; maybe I’ll feign illness, maybe the show will get cancelled for some reason, maybe the Mayan calendar is off and the world will end that afternoon. When I say that I knew, I mean, I didn’t really. I went through my day, increasingly agitated and nervous, going over my dumb little story in my head. But I knew.
Night comes. Hoo boy, we’re getting close! I get there early, park and then just sit in my car. I’m not really planning my escape yet; I’m still just sort of hoping that it will take care of itself. I walk up, and there’s Stephen Falk and James Urbaniak. This is my first time meeting either of them and my first impression is that 1) Stephen is a giant person, which in retrospect probably isn’t the case, I think he just has a big personality and 2) Dr. Venture James is dressed in some sort of leisure suit [Here, I drew a picture]. They were both very nice and conversational, but I just wanted to go inside and quietly sit while I waited for the world to explode. Or something. Plus, I can’t stress enough how scary Stephen Falk was: big booming voice, tall, being perfectly nice. Terrifying. To this day, he still scares me a little bit, it’s unfounded and we’re working on it.
So I walk in, and I get to sit at a table with some of my very favorite people. Several of whom had come pretty long distances to be there. I just couldn’t enjoy any of it. My friend Adam had done the show before and people were asking him about it, and if he would ever do it again.
He said this, and I’ll remember it forever, “No, I wouldn’t do it again. Maybe it would be different if I had screwed up the first time.”
I ordered a drink as soon as I could, and ordered a second as I peeled the label from the first. Lights dimmed and I realized I probably wasn’t going to be able to get drunk in time.
The show starts with Alie Ward, which kind of fucked me up for completely different reasons because she looks like Jessica Rabbit come to life as like, a cute hipster. And on top of that, our seats are situated behind the stage, so I can see exactly what it’s going to look like when I’m up there: sheer blackness except for bright lights directly on you, like going to a giant optometrist. She’s confidently walking around up there, sassy boots on, holding the mic and telling a story about something (I didn’t hear anything the whole night, I was too wrapped up in my own impending doom. Except I remember Dave Holmes told a story about punching a lady. I was very star-struck by Dave Holmes, I wanted to tell him that I voted for him on MTV but it seemed gauche) and now not only am I sure that I can’t do this fucking thing based solely on nerves; but now I also feel out of my league. The night goes on, and the storytellers get more charming and talented and accomplished and I don’t know what to do.
I was second to last, sandwiched in between James Urbaniak and Rob Delaney. James is up there telling the story about how he wasn’t home when his kids were born and I’m just sitting in my seat, thinking “Oh god oh god oh god,” because my story was about this one time a parrot hit my bedroom window. It can’t compete with missing the birth of your children or punching a woman in the face. And I can’t take it anymore. I pull out my phone, text Falk something along the lines of “Stephen, this is Alison” (it was the first time I’d texted him, aww) “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” and then I race for the door.
I almost made it, too. But I smashed right into Rob Delaney, all smiles and charming and handsome. I remember he gave me a huge smile and said “Hey there!” in the most friendly, carefree way, as if the room wasn’t quickly closing in to suffocate us all. I stuttered something about how I was leaving and by that point; Stephen had caught up to me. I just wanted to get outside. I knew everything would be okay if I could just get outside. Please let me go outside.
“I know it’s scary, I hate it too. But I promise you, just go up there in five minutes it’ll be over and you’ll feel great.” I must’ve just given him the most pleading and pitiful of looks, because he let me go. I pushed open the door and I felt so euphoric as that night air hit my face. I gasped, I think it might have been the first time I’d taken a breath that night.
I just started walking. After a block or so, I realized that it was the exact opposite direction of my car. And then I realized that I’d left my keys on the table. Inside the bar I had decided I was never going to step foot in again, filled with people that I had decided never to see again.
I come across this bench that just seemed to appear in front of me, I nearly tripped over it. I sit down, kind of numb, and then I start to cry. Not hard, but I’m crying. And at the time, I don’t really understand why. I still feel relieved, although not as happy as that first rush out the door. I curse at myself for leaving my keys, for agreeing to do this fucking thing in the first place, for being the kind of person that freaks out and bails. It takes me a minute to realize that I’m not alone on this weird little patio. I look up, and there are two fat dads in button-down party shirts holding beers a few feet in front of me. It’s just the three of us, I don’t really understand what they were doing in the strange little enclave and I’m sure they felt the same way about me. In that moment we sort of accepted each other, and went back to our respective business: me with my soft whimpering, them with their complaints about ex-wives.
“She’s fucking got him in ballet, man. I know she’s just doing it to fuck with me.”
My phone buzzes. It’s Adam, asking me if I’m okay, and telling me he’ll bring my keys out to me. Fresh tears, because in that moment I don’t know if I have ever been more grateful and indebted to anyone. He comes out and meets me, and just gives me this look like I lost the big game in little league but that’s okay and he’s still proud of me. He was so sweet and nice to me, said all the right things, none of which I deserved. I wanted to die, or, at the very least fall in a never-ending hole. Turn invisible? Anything. The group of friends started to trickle out and they’re all so kind and I don’t remember how good of a job I did of hiding my complete shame and embarrassment.
I remember walking in the door of my bedroom and just getting under the covers in my clothes. I just needed that day to be over so badly. I was defeated.
We all want to think the things we are afraid of are 10 feet tall, with teeth and claws and that we have every damn right to be afraid of them. But what it comes down to is that I couldn’t get up in front of 70+ people for five fucking minutes. And even though that first few minutes after the escape felt so so so good, I still can’t shake that creeping feeling in the back of my mind. That there is this thing, this common, ordinary thing that I just CAN’T do.
And you know, I think that would’ve been okay with me a few years ago. But I think my schtick of charming fuck-upery is getting a little old. I’ve never been someone to blame the world for my predicaments. I’m not one of those scattered people that think things just “happen” to her. I’m fully aware that it’s me.
What I’m trying to say is, Tuesday, March 29th at 10:30pm I’ll be at the Improv Comedy Lab. Telling a story about “Beginnings.” Hey! Maybe I’ll tell this story and how right there, that night, I’m starting my new ”beginning” as a fully functioning, non-coward.
Nah, I already decided I’m going to talk about the first time I masturbated to Law & Order: SVU.
