I look good for my age, which is 50. The same age as my stand-up comedy teacher, Peter.

But Peter, who I’m crazy about—says his 30-ish student Clarissa, who he’s crazy about—looks like she’ll never be my age. Peter texted me that he thought Clarissa was “pretty” in the beginning, but then she became “hugely, fantastically pretty!” Which is men’s language for really liking a woman.

So I joke, “Your high forehead suggests intelligence, but first impressions can be wrong.” 

Peter and I have not outgrown the childish practice of making fun of someone because you like him. At least I hope Peter likes me. We started texting each other after the fifth class in Peter’s course in beginning stand-up comedy (The tenth class is a performance at a comedy club.) We’ve been telling each other about our pasts. I shared with Peter that I was very promiscuous during my twenties. Does that frighten him? Peter was a male wallflower. A shy child, he became a stand-up comic to get over his shyness. Which is a little like playing Russian roulette because you’re afraid of dying. 

We're so different. The night of my stand-up debut, I slip past him at the door of the comedy club and take a seat in the section reserved for performers.

When he sees me sitting alone, he comes over, and says, “Ready?”

    “Never!” I tell him.

“You’re number seven,” he says. “After Clarissa.”

After Clarissa! Why not before? 

But in the line-up, number seven’s a good place. The earlier comics have warmed up the audience. People are laughing more easily because they’ve been drinking.

I’m quietly arguing with myself. 

VOICE IN MY HEAD:  Didn’t you dare yourself to do this ten weeks ago, when class began? You wanted to see if you’d enjoy it.

OTHER VOICE: Being a comic is a stupid idea. Why do you even  want to make people laugh?

FIRST VOICE: Because laughter is connection, and you want desperately to connect. You feel like you’ve mostly failed in your close interpersonal relationships, so you want to entice a much broader swath of people into connecting with you. 

In other words, you’ve failed miserably at something, so you’re setting your goals much, much higher!

But you can never succeed. Because the love of an audience can never make you happy. The love you’re looking for, you didn’t get because your mother died when you were a child. That kind of closeness, you experience once.

It’s what the promiscuity was about. You kept on looking and looking and didn’t find what you were looking for.

I’m thinking, “Where’s Clarissa?” Peter described her as a long-legged blonde. Doesn’t the world have enough of those? I’m a brunette. On the pale side. Dark eyes. Coral lipstick. Peter has brown, curly hair. Eyes that shine, like my nephew’s dog's, which, looking into mine, offer unconditional love. There’s an innocence about Peter. And the dog. 

Clarissa’s everything I’m not. In law school. Still finds the time for ballroom dancing. I couldn’t find the time for law school. 

There’s a chance she won’t appear tonight. A week ago, she admitted to Peter that she was getting cold feet. Peter consoled her to give her courage. He texted, “It was all I could do not to put my arms around her! L-O-L.”

Walter—the emcee for this evening—is a professional comic whose easy connection with audiences will grease the wheels for us novices. He grabs the mike, tells a few really funny jokes. Reminds the audience that tonight’s performers are students. Beginners. Give them the same help you’d give someone run over by a bus. 

Every comic has five minutes. I can hardly listen as the others perform. The first comic is a young gay man (He announces this immediately). Talks about coming out of the closet. How his parents said they’d prefer he was a drug addict. He told his parents it wasn’t a choice. But if they wanted, he’d be a drug addict and gay. 

     He’d do that, for them.

     Second comic up is a young lesbian (She announces this right away.). Started as a toddler when during “show ‘n tell”—the kids’ game, where you show off your private parts—she only wanted to see the girls’.

Says her only crime is lack of curiosity. 

Next up is an older man who reads a list of jokes from a sheet of paper. Since teaching is my day job, I feel incumbent to grade him. I give him a “B” for reading comprehension (some of his jokes are incomprehensible), “C” for fluency (he’s wearing glasses, but can’t read his writing), and “D” for poor delivery (he forgot how to smile). 

I’m wondering when Clarissa will arrive. She’s supposed to go before me. 

Fourth comic is a turbaned Muslim. His father’s insanely strict. His mother’s well-meaning. They drive him crazy—it’s why Muslim teens join ISIS. He’s not joining. Doesn’t want seventy virgins in heaven.  Just one hot chick who lives in the present.

Where’s Clarissa? 

Fifth comic is a teenager who's stoned. He jokes about masturbating, watching Internet porn, and having sex with girls whose name he hasn’t asked. Although only a teenager, he realizes life is short. He wants to have as much sex as possible. Having a purpose is energizing. He knows what he’s here for.

    The applause is wild. 

It’s time for Clarissa. Walter says, “Give a warm welcome to Clarence Jones!” Clarence? I hear a silent drum roll. And onto the stage walks a midget!

     The midget says not to judge short people by the Munchkins. The Munchkins are weird! Why pick Oz to land in? Why wear nineteenth century bonnets and bowler hats? Is this Little House on the Prairie or The Wizard of Oz? Is that Michael Landon under a beanie?  

      When he’s done, I hear a mixture of pity ‘plause and genuine laughter.  

Then my name’s called, and I’m doing comedy. The lights are so bright. I personally want to die. My routine’s about teaching. Returning a test paper, I say, “No, Hitler wasn’t a woman! No, JFK didn’t free the slaves! And you spelled your name wrong.” No one’s throwing his drink at me. No one’s shouting, “You stink!” I’m only doing what I practiced a million times in my living room. Instead of talking to my TV, I’m talking to fifty people quietly waiting. To laugh. To feel relief. Something like sex.

Is anything not about sex?

STOP! If you think about sex, you might forget your lines—your job is to remember them.

But don’t laugh yourself, that’s their job. Your job is to deliver your lines.

Or a baby. 

When a student asks, ‘What’s your problem?’ I say, ‘MY problem? You’re 15 and scared of nothing. You say prison would be great:  free food, free gym … NO HOMEWORK!”

It looks like it's going to be a fine baby. All ten fingers and toes. Just keep going. Until the end. When the red light in the back comes on, you’ve got a minute left.

Four minutes have passed. You’re eighty percent through. 

Teaching is war! Twenty-seven of them. One of you! BE ALL YOU CAN BE. Join the US Teaching Profession. Uncle Sam wants you!

You’re approaching the end. 

Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. 

With Post Traumatic Teaching Disorder, teaching never goes away. You have flashbacks of your worst lessons. Your students aren’t learning … all over again!

I don’t listen to the applause. I'm bathing in the glory of having performed. I make a beeline for Peter. “What happened to Clarissa?”   

    He whispers, “See! You kept on coming to class, saying you couldn’t do it! And you did!”           

I’ve been an overachiever since I was a child. I never feel better than after doing a good job. Peter looks like he’d like to hug me. Then he looks away. So I touch his left shoulder, from where I’m standing to his right.

He looks to the left.

It’s a silly joke you play on people when you’re five-years-old.  

    “I like you so much!” I say.

I’m betting that it’s all he needs to hear. I’m betting that he needs to hear it from me. I’m betting that he’s always liked me a lot. These are huge bets! But I’ve just taken a big risk (stand-up). And won.

    When he looks to his right, my lips take his by surprise. A moment that lasts forever.

A Hallmark moment.

Will he burp in my mouth? Shrink like I’ve got bad breath? Fall to the floor in a faint?

    He kisses me back.

And I know I've come home.