“I have tickets to go to a comedy club in a few weeks,” my
husband announces one evening over dinner. It should sound like a lot of fun, but instead, it fills my
stomach with lead.
All week, I push the thought away, the same way I do on
Sunday afternoons, when the idea of Monday morning work rears its ugly head. I still haven’t figured out exactly why
things like this are so hard for me.
Maybe a few hours with a psychologist would help, I think. Ten-plus years of being a reporter, and
the youngest of seven kids should have made a difference as well, but for some
reason, large social outings only succeed in making me feel anxious.
Nevertheless, I persevere, telling myself it’s not like I am
going to be the one on stage. I
just have to sit there in the dark and laugh. Simple.
The night arrives, and I put off getting dressed up until
the last possible moment. I
stare at my closet and draw in a large tired breath. My wardrobe looks like a gym teacher clashed with a
librarian. I have no idea what
looks good on me. So I grab some
jeans and a top, throw on some mascara and try and forget about it.
Our friends arrive to pick us up and we crawl into their
suburban. I am comfortable with
them and soon, I start to relax.
Their presence insolates me and makes me feel at ease. This won’t be so bad. Most of the new things I’ve tried have
turned out great, so this should too.
We arrive at the club and are ushered into a darkened room
and squeeze around a table. I am
struck suddenly with the horrified thought that one of my friends will be that
one person in the crowd everybody hates.
The heckler. For someone
who shies away from any kind of attention, this would be horrendously
embarrassing. I inwardly beg for
silence from my table, and I am rewarded.
My friends are not inconsiderate big mouths with the maniacal desire to
make others squirm.
The comedians are hilarious. The laughter calms me even further and I wonder what I was
so worried about. Exposure to
these types of situations is exactly what I need—I do it to remind myself that
the world is not a scary place to live and without a little risk, it seems dull
somehow.
After the show, I am relieved to get out of the stuffy room
and begin to think about pajamas and a movie. Instead, my friends suggest we go out. I cringe. The little baby in me has a silent fit, and wants to
scream. Go out? I think, we just did! I’ve done my duty
for at least the next month.
Instead, I gather my remaining patience and go along with the group.
They decide a pub would be a good idea. That seems reasonable I think. I like pubs—the casual atmosphere is
unlike the bars I went to as a college student. Just up my alley. I’m okay with that.
We get to the doors and are stopped by two beefy men in
black and a young man who looks like he couldn’t be much older than my teenage
son. I’m confused for a second,
until I realize they are doormen, this young man’s enforcers. Why would there be doormen at a
pub? My experiences with doormen
was a long, long time ago, on a street we called Electric Ave. Back then, there was a need for this
kind of enforcement, because we were all young, with brains that had not quite
developed the ability to think and act rationally. What could they possibly need to do to a bunch of 40-somethings
who would probably be in bed at this time of night, any other day of the week?
The young man flashes a smile and asks to see our
identification. This instantly
becomes the highlight of my night.
We whoop and holler like a pack of hooligans going to a soccer
game. We oblige and I pull my
driver’s license out of my wallet basking in the glow of such a wonderful
compliment. But instead of looking
at it, the youngster scans it into a hand held device that looks like a debit
card machine. A trickle of
disappointment runs through me as I realize he would probably do this to my
great grandma.
We file in and find a table. The place is crowded and as I scan the room, I realize we
are probably the oldest people in here by at least ten years. I assume rather enviously, that the
rest of our demographic is doing the rational thing and sticking to the solace
and comfort of their homes.
I also notice that there is a dance floor. Then it all comes into focus. This is not a traditional pub in any
sense of the word, where the tired, weather-beaten blue collar workers come to
blow off steam in front of a large crackling open fire. There are no dartboards or pool tables
to speak of. There are some
antique-ish looking trinkets sprinkled throughout the place, but nothing is
authentic, and it doesn’t match the vision I have in my mind. Instead of the grizzled
old bartender, there are several young men and women slinging the drinks. They probably don’t even have the
double-barreled shotgun hidden within arm’s reach beneath the bar, I think with
disappointment.
Looking around, I realize this is a place my 18-year-old
self would have loved. Now though,
I feel like a teenager at a toddler’s birthday party.
We try to talk, but the music is so loud I have to lean over
and yell into my husband’s ear and gesticulate wildly to communicate. We sit around the table and
occasionally try to say something.
But mostly, we just stare around the room. My friend does try to say something, but I can’t hear and
I’m too tired and lazy to figure it out, so I just nod my head and smile in
what I hope are the right places.
We try to dance, but the music is just the same long, never ending
pounding beat, like somewhere in the building, there is a drumming circle I’m
not aware of.
I’m getting sensory overload and need some quiet. After an hour, I convince my friends to
leave. Outside in the parking lot,
we get odd stares from strangers, as we talk on our way to the vehicle. I realize it’s because we are speaking
at a volume way beyond what is normal and sound like a bunch of workers at a
construction site.
I sigh in relief as we pile into the truck and make our way
home. We talk and have some good
laughs at our own expense. I’m not
upset that I didn’t enjoy my first bar experience in a long time. I just get more enjoyment out of other
things, like a darkened comedy club, or sitting on the top of a mountain.
I can happily say it’s just not for me.
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