Walking through the rows of people after my name is called is intimidating. A row of chairs brought upstairs from a classroom fill the aisle, leaving very little room to make it to the stage. For a moment, the fears of forgetting my jokes or completely bombing onstage are replaced with fears of tripping on a mic cord or stepping on someone's foot.
When I make it to the stage, and I hear my intro music end, the weight of what I am doing crashes down on me. I am saying things in front of a crowd of people--some strangers, some friends--in attempts to make them laugh. How presumptuous, to assume I am funny enough for people to pay money for. But they did, and now it is my time to fork out my end of the deal.
The spotlight prevents me from seeing anyone's face but those on the front row, and I try not to look at those. I prefer staring at one of the paintings hanging from the back wall. There is a slight reflection of myself, and part of me feels as though I am at home, practicing in front of a mirror. But my mirror doesn't laugh like these people are laughing.
When I tell a successful joke a surge of pride shoots through me. The laughter is less a noise and more a feeling: a vibration, a validation, immediate proof that I did something right.
Looking at the make-shift stage before or after a show is nothing special. A few carpeted platforms pushed together in front of a lecture hall, a red drape velcroed on the wall, and a "Humor U" sign literally being held up by tape. But when I am standing on the stage, proving myself after weeks of practice and preparation, I feel on top of the world.
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