Embarassing

Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how vulnerable writing makes you.  Listening to CJane talk about how she allows herself to be so open to the world and then lets the cards fall where they may is inspiring...but also intimidating.  I'm not so worried about crossing the line writing about other people.  I'm very sensitive to others, and I would be hyper-sensitive when writing anything about them.  I would never write anything bad anyone, even if I tried.

Me on the other hand...well, I'm pretty worried about embarrassing myself.

I do a lot of dumb things.  Most of the time I recognize they are dumb, but feel the need to do them anyway, because life would be boring if I didn't. I'm not talking about truly dumb things, like doing drugs or playing with matches.  No, when it comes to safety I am always on the ball...sometimes to a fault.  But when it comes to social situations, or trying new things, or being involved, I go all in.

The fashion club is having modeling auditions? I sign up.  Accessibility week is going on? Get me some crutches.  There's a costume contest this Halloween?  You better believe I'm dressed up as Ginny Weasley (while she was possessed by Voldemort, no less, with bloody chicken feathers coating my hands and hair, and bags under  my eyes.) I'm easily enthused. I have an obsessive personality. I'm in love with with attention. Generally, I find this to be a good thing.  But looking back on my life and thinking about recording it has me shrinking in my chair.  Writing down things that happened is very different than doing them spur of the moment.  It requires thinking things through, and having others read those thoughts.

I don't know why there is such a difference for me doing things, and then talking about doing them. But it all just seems so private, and I'm not even talking about weighty issues.  I'm just talking about petty college girl issues. But I am scared.

I don't know how I am going to keep those insecurities from limiting my writing.

What's funny?

Reading the segment in Tell It Slant about humor was particularly interesting to me, because I am fascinated by funny.

What's funny? Why do people laugh at what they laugh at? What do some people laugh at my jokes, and others not? Why will some people laugh at things I say that aren't even joke?s  Why are jokes different depending on if you are writing them, or performing them? Why do certain crowds like certain jokes over others, and why is laughter contagious? Why are some people just. not. funny?

These are questions I ask myself every day, as I prepare jokes to preform in front of a much too generous Humor U crowd.  That's another question.  Why are BYU audiences so much better than other ones? Is their attitude of service so ingrained into them it comes out in every way, including finding pity on an unfunny performer?

I did a set at a high school in Salt Lake City this week.  No one laughed.  They smiled, I'm sure.  Chuckled, occasionally.  But the same jokes I preformed the same way for approximately the same demographic failed miserably, when they were previously eaten up.

There are lots of reasons this was.  The auditorium was much too large for the small audience, and small audiences are hard to work on as it is.  But why should the amount of people we are preforming for change the success of the joke?  Would one person laugh at my joke in a big crowd, but not laugh at my joke in a small crowd? Why? Are people that impressionable, or is atmosphere really that important?

I don't know the answer to any of these questions.  At the end of the day, all I know is funny is a powerful thing, and I want so badly to be able to be in control of it.  Like the last airbender or something.  Which makes me feel sad about myself that I just made that comparison. Which makes me ripe for a self-deprecating joke.  Perfect.

Snow.

As I walked to class this morning, everyone had a different opinion about the snow.

For those from warm climates, like Southern California, it was death itself

For those from drier climates, it was a blizzard.

For those used to the snow, it was a familiar experience

And For those from Utah, it meant the beginning of another long, off and on season of snow and rain, of sun and glimmering hope, then back to snow.

People had different coping mechanisms.  Some were bundled up as if the world depended on it.  The cars were driving slower, and people were walking gingerly, afraid to slip at any moment. 

There is still a general buzz of excitement in something new: a chance to wear new fashions, a change from the normal sweltering heat.  But with every continual snow, the novelty will wear off, and the resentment will grow.

Red

Taylor Swift's new album.  Red.  I love it. 

A lot of people are criticizing it because it isn't her normal country vibe, but I love her new sound.  I feel like if I were a singer and I were touring around the world singing the same songs over and over and over, I would want to mix things up a little bit so I didn't sound exactly the same all the time.  I would also hope that what I was singing sounded different when I was 22 than it did when I was 15.

I just wish Taylor Swift could be my best friend.  She is just so nice and real, but exciting at the same time.  I am so afraid of risks and anything uncomfortable, and she is always so open to new things, even though she knows it could lead to heartbreak.  That is a skill she has that makes her such a good songwriter.  If she played it safe, she would have nothing interesting to write songs about, but because she falls so hard so fast, she has song inspiration out the wazoo.

I'm glad I can just listen to Taylor's music and live vicariously through her, because going through those ups and downs all the time would be exhausting.  I don't know how she does it.  But I am glad she does.  

Anchorage

I've only been in my grandma's apartment one time that I can remember.  She lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and has for most of her life.  She is 91 years old, and still lives independently, which amazes me.  She is in excellent shape, and she volunteers and the local hospital gift shop, as well as tourist centers.  She brought me up to Alaska for a visit when I was 14, and was an amazing host.  Although I'm sure she was tired much of the time, she took me anywhere and everywhere a tourist would want to go.  I went on a boat ride in Seward, Shopping in downtown anchorage, and to a nature reserve in Soldotna.

Her apartment was small but tidy.  I slept on a pull out couch in the living room, as there was only one bedroom.  At 86 she could still drive, which was a feat in my mind, and her car was the grandma-est car I have ever seen.

It's been 8 minutes and my brain is not having it today.  Sorry, folks.

My Childhood home

Last week I would have called my childhood home just "my home."  But I can't say that anymore.

My parents are moving.  They are moving to one city over, which is about 10 minutes away from my old house, but they are still moving.  The last time they moved was in 1996.  I was three years old.  That is the house we have lived in ever since.

I remember three things about the old house: there was a house that looked like an igloo, and a big blue house that triplets lived in. They owned a gumball machine.

Every memory besides those were made while I was living in the white brick house across from the mountain.

When I went home last weekend, it didn't occur to me that it would be the last time seeing my home while I could still consider it my own.  The next time I would come home was thanksgiving, and by that point "home" will be my sister's house in South Jordan until construction on the new house is done.

As I was pulling out of the driveway, on my way back to Provo, it hit me: I was pulling out of it for the last time.  I began to cry, as I internally waved from the backseat, whispering goodbyes to my childhood home.

If I didn't live in my childhood home anymore, I must not be a child anymore.

Stage

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.