All eyes are on me. They are waiting for me to say something, but my mind is blanker than my daughter’s summer journal. Seconds tick by, but I can’t think of anything to say, can’t remember what language I speak.
This is the scene playing in a loop in my head. Tonight I will attend an improvisational comedy class. Despite the utter lack of consequences if I suck, I am petrified that I will.
Public speaking is no problem for me when I have a clear idea of what to say and the right props. I have taught corporate workshops for years. But tonight there will be no roadmap, no net.
I actually have butterflies in my stomach. Also, I feel really sleepy, which I think is a defense mechanism, my body’s own version of playing possum. Can’t do the class if I’m asleep.
One thing I don’t want to do is to chicken out once I get there, just hide at the back and not participate. Although that approach is not without appeal—if I don’t try, I can’t fail.
I won’t do that. I won’t.
I’ll probably get home too late to write about the class tonight, so tales of flop sweat will have to wait until tomorrow.
Whose idea was this again?