by Stevie G.B.
I will never forget the first time I tried stand-up comedy at an open mic night on Long Island. The adrenaline was rushing through my veins as the moment neared when my name would be called knowing soon I would find myself alone in front of a roomful of strangers, seeking approval for some unknown reason other than I didn't get enough from my mother. At the last second I thought this was the worst idea I ever had and started eying the exit doors thinking nobody would notice me sneaking out and, after a few seconds, the emcee would realize that I had chickened out and call the next fool up to the stage. Suddenly, it was too late, my name was called and my heart was in my throat. I went up there, holding the microphone in my sweaty hands, gasping for air as I began to speak, the red hot lights in my face, and somehow got through it, in robotic fashion, managing only small bits of laughter in between the noises of clanking glasses, coughs and sniffles, and whispers from waitresses to customers. Soon the longest five minutes of my life were over and as I left the stage, hearing only a bit of gracious (but forced) applause from the audience, I was glad it was over, but it wasn't, because - like a drug addict - I have not been able to stop.
Stevie G.B. discovered his true calling (stand-up); unfortunately, they're not calling enough, so he has to keep his day job (accounting). Check out his mid-life awakening.