This blog. What a journey it has been. There have been highs and lows and middles and some redesigns and do you think I’m about to tell you I’m quitting blogging? No, why would you think that. The title has nothing to do with that, so of course you wouldn’t think that. OK, where was I going. YES, THIS BLOG.
The blog has been mainly stupid but occasionally you get a Facebook message asking you to tell a story from it out loud, in front of breathing human beings, and sometimes it causes so much stress, your hair actually falls out.
I received a Facebook message from a Facebook friend, who is a comedian in Dallas (Katy Evans), asking me to be a part of a storytelling series they were having at Dallas Comedy House. I freaked out for 20 seconds, wondering why the h*ck she would want me to do it, and then I eventually said yes because why not, YOLO, FOMO, lit af, SLANG.
May 3 is when she asked me. June 23 was when I was set to “perform.” That meant I had 51 days to prepare. Roughly seven weeks. 1,224 hours. 73,440 minutes. I would be fine. I would be fine.
If by fine, I mean my hair started to fall out, then yes, I was completely 100 percent A-OK, fine. It could be my new detangleizer that caused my hair to fall out, or it could be the stress of telling a story in a comedy club where people go to laugh. You decide.
7:22 a.m. Tuesday, June 7
7:22 a.m. is the time my alarm on my cracked iPhone goes off every morning, aka my least favorite part of every work day. This is also the time I was tagged in a photo on Facebook. The photo was a flier of said storytelling event, encouraging people, Facebook friends, family, strangers to come and watch me fail.
I scanned the other names on the flier and low and behold, Amanda Austin was listed. Just the person who opened Dallas Comedy House. Just that person. Just her. No big deal. Just PMS and Amanda Austin. Just telling stories. Just… just… jus.. j
Every waking second between June 7 and June 16
I started bothering everyone. I asked anyone who had met me what story I should tell. That included my father, my mother, my roommate, my readers, my co-workers, the lady at the donut shop, my shoe salesman at Nordstroms. Everyone. What story should I tell and actually can you just tell it for me instead.
People offered up their opinions and suggestions and everyone was wrong. My dad and another person said the tuna salad debacle story (wrong), my friends said the pregnant in Vegas story (wrong), my co-worker said any rock bottom story (wrong), but ultimately someone I like barely know said to tell the story about a guy being not into me and a stranger letting me know, so I said ok, let’s do that.
I still refused to practice. I knew it was going to be bad, so I just didn’t even want to start grooming it. Also, everyone and their mother kept telling me to have the guy I’m dating help me. I am dating a comedian. Like someone who gets paid actual money to stand on stage and tell jokes. I refused. I didn’t want to practice something I’m not good at in front of him. Do you see Kim Kardashian rapping in front of Kanye. Or Mrs. Claus delivering toys. Or Melania Trump running for president. No.
Thursday, June 16
I went to another show in the storytelling series and became really inspired. I walked out of the comedy club feeling like a dog who just do-doed. I kicked the dirt to cover my shitty attitude and away I went. I went home. To finally practice. In front of my roommate who was asleep. But it was practicing. Something I hadn’t done up until that point. One week before the show.
Confident and alive, I shared the flier on Facebook.
9:42 a.m. Saturday, June 18
The man who is the subject of the story I was planning on telling comments on the flier on Facebook, implying he would show up to watch. Meaning he would be there. He would be at the comedy club, listening and watching me tell the story. The story about him not being into me. That story.
I texted my friends.
I began to calm down and started acting all cocky and decided that by god if I could get through him not being into me, I could somehow work it into the story. Like, if he did show up, then it would just be so awkward, it would be funny. If he didn’t, then it’s still a funny anecdote to tell at the beginning of the story. Ignorant confidence. I live for it.
Wednesday, June 22, one day before the show
I practiced the story in front of my co-workers and decided I actually hated the story. My co-workers weren’t laughing, I wasn’t laughing, everyone thinks I’m a joke, I either had to cancel, jump off a bridge or change my story. So then I suddenly remembered that I told a story about The Real Housewives of Dallas to my family at lunch and they laughed, so I would just change my story.
I practiced that in front of my co-workers and one co-worker started fake snoring, so that went well.
Back to the other story I went.
Thursday, June 23, day of show
I ran through some of it in front of co-workers and they were mainly really worried about it all. Like it was just understood that I was going to bomb. Like PMS loves donuts and PMS will make a fool of herself trying to be funny in front of a crowd.
Night of show, I’m certain I’m going to die
I went to Maracas in Deep Ellum and had a margarita and then went over to DCH.
I texted Hot Neighbor and asked where he was and demanded he show up because I was nervous and bossy.
I ordered a beer and drank roughly half of it.
I went into the greenroom like I was important and listened to the other storytellers not care one bit. They just sat there with ease. They were so relaxed and calm, it was actually frightening.
I then found some water and gulped it to try to combat the feeling like I was about to pass out.
I somehow managed to walk on stage and perform. I didn’t die. I am still alive by the grace of God. Thanks, everyone for reading this blog, supporting me, etc. Bye.