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So Good At Being Uncomfortable
Discomfort. My default state.
Maybe it’s the fact that my legs never stop moving, or the quizzical look in my eye, but people frequently ask me if I’m okay. Friends, comics, acquaintances, people who work in CVS. I guess sometimes I’m so focused on not letting my hand tremor show, I forget what my face looks like. What does my face look like? Don’t answer that.
Before I got into comedy, it was my goal in life to be basically invisible, and observe, unnoticed. Pensive and zoned out is my preferred state, and an overcrowded New York City provides proper anonymity for the perpetual daydreamer.
Outside of comedy, at jobs or wherever, people are often perplexed I’m a comedian. When I worked at the nursing home, I barely spoke at all. Once, a co-worker commented on how quiet I was and I said, “yeah, my hope is that others will realize how nice that is take my lead.” I stand by that hilarious retort, but she thought it was kind of bitchy. Maybe my lack of communication derives from knowing most will not appreciate my clearly superior sarcasm. Comics have told me when they first met me, I was so awkward, they thought I might be on the spectrum. Then, they got to know my winning personality, and they’ve told me I’m definitely on the spectrum.
People often think I’m a good listener, but they’re confusing being quiet with listening. I can be a good listener. If it’s a close friend, or something/someone in comedy, I’ll absorb everything. Being an introvert, I stumbled upon a power move. Sitting quietly, in my discomfort, makes other people really uncomfortable. Uneasiness is contagious. To make up for this, most feel the need to fill the void and ramble on. I jest about this on stage, but people really do trust me, people who barely know me because, I assume, I have a very non-threatening look. If people only knew the psycho shit that filters through the gears of my non-stop, over-thinking head, they would think twice before treating me like their therapist. I didn’t realize the delicate art of conversation (or lack there of), like a strong play in chess, quietly smiling and nodding is actually a great way to get people to trust you and reveal information. I didn’t know that until I studied psychology (by studied, I mean I took two college courses, became obsessed with diagnosing people with mental illness, and spent countless hours of free time reading up on abnormal psychology). Then, once I figured out I had this almost super hero like power, I started using it to my advantage (okay, maybe more like a villain than a super hero). But often times, I fall into my own trap of not wanting to talk to people and getting stuck hearing about their lives/problems. Of course, I do give great (condescending) advice. What’s more lovable (straight up obnoxious) than a know it all twenty-seven year old?
I don’t like when people point out how uncomfortable I look. I’m so used existing in an uncomfortable state, I often don’t even know I’m acting out of the ordinary. But once attention is drawn to it, suddenly, I don’t know what to do with my arms. WHAT DO I DO WITH MY ARMS. Comics love to point out when I’m being uncomfortable. They are sick people who get enjoyment out of my social anxiety (in their defense, I would do the same to them).
“I just don’t get why you’re so uncomfortable in social situations,” a friend of mine said to me at a party I was trying to ditch. I scrambled for an explanation. Truth be told, I’m far better off than I used to be. Anxiety/panic attacks used to cripple me. I would get physically sick (in a hypochondriac fit, I’ve gone to the doctor numerous times convinced I had stomach ulcers, only to be told it’s all in my head). I’ve come a long way, but it seems I’ve got a ways to go. Though I’m unsure I’ll ever get there. At this point in my life, I no longer like doing things I’m not good at. Like yoga, committing to relationships, or math. There’s comfort in being so good at being uncomfortable.
This was the explanation I gave to my friend: More than not my head is reeling, that when I’m in a situation with a lot happening, I cannot process it all at once, and the gears in my head jam up. I then feel overwhelmed and the urge to be home, immediately. This may or may not be why I tend to get black out drunk at weddings.
Someone I dated once told me I was more comfortable on stage than I ever was with him. I laughed at this, and I still find it hilarious, albeit, willing to admit it’s at least a little bit sad (the funniest things are always also a little sad). For all the whining guys do about women talking too much, every one I’ve dated has found my lack of talking disquieting. I’m most comfortable where most people would be freaking out: on stage, in the ocean, climbing a steep mountain, or even, tripping on acid.
The only thing I lament about my recondite disposition is, sometimes, people think I’m being rude. To be clear, sometimes I can be very rude. But not usually. Usually, I’m way off in outer space. Allow me to orbit whatever is preoccupying my mind. I always come back. Maybe, not likely, but maybe, upon return, I’ll be a little more at ease.
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