Cake and the Microphone
Apparently, ever since I was a child, I hated my birthday. Even at the early age of two, I perceived the whole ritual to be embarrassing and overwhelming. I even hated people actually singing Happy Birthday. I’d usually respond to the ritual by bursting into tears. Of course, if you ever heard my family sing - you might have cried too.
Most of my childhood birthday party photos show me standing next to a big, beautiful birthday cake - hysterically crying. I’m wearing the cutest of dresses, my party hat is adorable, and my shoes are just precious! But, there I am, tears rolling down my face, miserable, plotting everyone’s demise. I would imagine a terrible accident that entailed birthday candles, lighter fluid and pieces of icing everywhere. The weirdest thing is that I have no idea why I was so miserable. I vaguely remember that I used to be somewhat sensitive to any kind of noise, but I think going into a fetal position under a table and screaming warrants more of an explanation.
If I had to take a guess, I think I just didn’t like the attention. I didn’t know what to do with it or how to handle it exactly. It didn’t matter that everyone was there to celebrate my life - with the exception of my cousin Marie maybe - I was still totally overwhelmed by everyone gawking at me. “What do they want?” I’d think. “Leave me alone!” It was as if my birthday parties were like a circle of judgment somehow.
Perhaps I felt inadequate. While other birthday boys and girls would smile, working the crowd, loving every accolade and commenting on every gift, I could barely utter the simplest of words. At that time - I was so shy that I spoke to no one other than my parents, and even they seemed uninterested. In order to explain my shyness - my grandmother would regularly insist that I was deaf. To her, there could be no other possible reason for a girl from a boisterous Italian family to be so quiet. Although I understood that being deaf was considered a handicap, I knew that it would also have such advantages as never having to hear any of them sing again. But alas… my hearing was fine.
All this makes me wonder how the hell I ever became a comic, a job where complete focus is on you. Performing stand up is almost exactly like my birthday parties – just without anyone celebrating my existence. Ironically enough, my Dad says I perform because I like the attention. This makes me laugh. On nights where everything goes flawlessly, and the audience loves every thing about me, then yes, I love the attention. However, on nights where the audience seems to stare at me as if I’m the new exhibit in a gallery that just lost its funding… the attention can be rather daunting.
I’m a comedian because I’m funny and that may be the only skill I’ve shown so far. Because most careers don’t tend to require “funny” as an attribute, this has greatly limited my job options. Example: When applying for an administrative position, I am never asked what I thought of the Ziggy cartoon in the last Sunday paper.
The only jobs I can think of that require one to be funny, other than a comedian, are a clown or perhaps a Sanitation Worker. I did clean bathrooms in college, which wasn’t as enjoyable as it may sound, and being a clown would probably entail going to birthday parties, and I think we’ve covered that already. Besides, my balloon animals would totally suck - I just know it.
Today, birthday parties have become more about my marking another year than having cupcakes, streamers and such. It’s another year that I’ve survived and hopefully accomplished a few things in the process. I think about my family, my friends, my career, and my health and celebrate these things with the people who love me - all three of them.
My birthday photos now show me standing next to a fat-free frozen yogurt cake, while all my party guests are looking in the other direction. The judgment and pressure have been completely removed from the ritual and like most performers, I now save the feelings of inadequacy for the stage. J
