Over the past coupla months, I've learned that pursuing your dreams while working full time is a bit of a cardiovascular effort. A relay race of sorts. Where I run from one place to another, exchanging a baton of folded paper, scrawled with handwritten notes and edited jokes, from my work self to my comedy self.
The relay continues through Grand Central Station, as comedy self prays to catch the incoming train and make the 7 pm open mic before it's too late to throw your name in the bucket. The bucket of fate that determines if you'll get to go up that night, rewarding your athletic efforts, or if you'll spend the next two hours shifting in your seat, going over lines in your head, and exhaling your disappointment each time you hear a name being commanded to the stage that is not your own.
The nights when my name is not pulled from the bucket, just a flimsy square of paper squatting in a college lined sea, seem more unfair then the nights I have a a bad performance. The adrenaline, the excitement, the potential energy just pulling at your leg, begging for attention.
But you do it again. And again. Each time with the hope that you'll get called. With five minutes of stage time that feel like both infinity and a breeze. When you end your set with dampness accumulating under your arms and on your forehead. Investigating the faces of audience members to confirm success or failure. And chugging a beer either way.
Every good workout deserves a cold one.
The relay continues through Grand Central Station, as comedy self prays to catch the incoming train and make the 7 pm open mic before it's too late to throw your name in the bucket. The bucket of fate that determines if you'll get to go up that night, rewarding your athletic efforts, or if you'll spend the next two hours shifting in your seat, going over lines in your head, and exhaling your disappointment each time you hear a name being commanded to the stage that is not your own.
The nights when my name is not pulled from the bucket, just a flimsy square of paper squatting in a college lined sea, seem more unfair then the nights I have a a bad performance. The adrenaline, the excitement, the potential energy just pulling at your leg, begging for attention.
But you do it again. And again. Each time with the hope that you'll get called. With five minutes of stage time that feel like both infinity and a breeze. When you end your set with dampness accumulating under your arms and on your forehead. Investigating the faces of audience members to confirm success or failure. And chugging a beer either way.
Every good workout deserves a cold one.
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