Waiting for a Punchline

Stand up comedy is tough. It takes guts. And if you hope to get anywhere as a comedian, it also takes an enormous commitment. You’ll spend hours writing jokes, trying them out, and perfecting them until you have a set of jokes that can (usually) make (most) people laugh.

I was twenty-two when I started comedy and eager for the attention. Being funny meant more to me than being pretty or gainfully employed. I wanted to make people laugh until they cried. I wanted people to quote my jokes. That kind of validation was like a drug to me.

On the flip side there was fear. Humor is so subjective, rejection was an ever present possibility, always ready to burst my bubble. Audience feedback is immediate and often harsh. Anything from heckling to polite silence has the potential to wound. Performing comedy live on stage by yourself is about as vulnerable as it gets. When I mentioned it, people would say, “That’s hard. You’re so brave. I could never do that.” I was afraid, but what is courage without fear?

I eventually got tired of picking myself up and forcing myself to face my fear over and over again. It was masochistic. The good feeling that used to come with the sound of laughter was lost somewhere between the front row and the edge of the stage. Positive feedback was a frequency I just couldn’t hear anymore. I wanted to stop, but how? I had spent years calling myself a comedian. People would say I gave up. Not to mention the sunk cost. What about those years I wasted?

After a while I though, screw it, I’ll find something else to do! Maybe I was brave, but stand up comedy was the wrong vehicle for my courage. If I could just trade one identity for another, people might forget all about my failure as a comedian. I could rebuild myself as someone else.

The boxing gym membership was either a birthday gift or a Christmas gift. I only remember asking about it when the weather turned cold. I wanted visible muscles. I wanted to be impressive. The first class was so intense, it made me want to throw up, but I loved it.

I took as many classes as I could, learning how to wrap my hands properly and how to deliver effective punches on the heavy bag. I went from barely being able to do one pushup to doing multiple sets of twenty and I was running a few miles every day for stamina. It made me feel like a million bucks, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to fight.

Then an opportunity presented itself. It was for charity, proceeds would go to The Wounded Warrior Project. I was just excited to have a chance to put my skills to the test. I would spar on the weekends wearing the recommended plastic mouth protector, sweaty communal headgear, and cheekbones greased with Vaseline.

There was a kid who would fight me because he was about the same size. He was nice and encouraging. There was an asshole there too, an instructor from another gym who liked to hit hard to ‘teach us a lesson.’ That was the first time a punch made me see stars. There was also another woman, a kickboxer. She was at a disadvantage for not being able to use kicks, so even as a novice, I did pretty well against her.

The guys at the gym started paying attention. They went from doubting my commitment to helping me search for an opponent in my weight class. A couple of women had signed up. One was too big and the other was too small.

I considered my options, ultimately deciding to fight the woman who was ten pounds heavier. “Are you sure?,” they asked me on more than one occasion. I signed a waiver. A friend from my comedy days, who also happened to be a former boxer and personal trainer took up my cause. He promised to get me ready for the fight. Cue the Rocky training montage. Between my training with him and weekly sparring sessions I felt like I’d be ready when the time came. In spite of all that, boxing gyms are in the business of making money. They could not endorse whatever training I was receiving elsewhere, so they insisted I hire one of their own. Now I had two personal trainers who sometimes gave me conflicting advice.

I liked being in training for something. I would get a kick out of saying things like: “I can’t eat that stuff, I’m in training” and “I have to go to bed early, I’m in training.” God, I must have been so annoying. Even as the training was coming to an end, I don’t think I had any idea what it would be like to be in an actual fight. I bought my own headgear that was too large because women’s sizes are hard to find. Whenever it got sweaty it would shift around, blocking part of my vision. In hindsight, that is something I should have addressed before the fight, but again, options were limited.

The night before the fight I carb-loaded with a big plate of spaghetti and got a good night’s sleep. They told us to arrive early so we could meet each other and watch the other fights. My opponent had apparently cut her thumb and spent that morning in the hospital getting stitches, but she still wanted to fight! It was too late to turn back now. Sure, I’ll fight this hundred and fifty pound Amazon, high on prescription medication. What could possibly go wrong?

They had turned over the boxing gym for the event, with a spotlight on the ring. Someone was taking tickets at the door as people started seating themselves on folding chairs. My husband, my mother, my brother, a few coworkers and friends came to see me do my thing. My father respectfully declined the invitation. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. I tried not to let it bother me. I was too nervous to watch the other fights. I was trying to psych myself up, which I was told was definitely a real thing that I could accomplish.

I don’t even remember hearing the bell. I just remember the sting of that first punch and the seemingly endless barrage of punches that followed, each one hitting me square in the face. Everything was in slow motion, of course. My stamina was exhausted by taking punches. Both trainers were probably shouting “Slip those punches! Get out of the way!” The problem was my body was made of lead at that point and I could barely tell it what to do. I tried my combinations on her, but either they did not connect or they were too weak.

I finally found an opening and hit her with a strong left hook that surprised both of us. It took me too long to recover from the surprise to land any more punches though. She kept pounding me like Mike Tyson until I started to stumble. My nose was bleeding too. I remember them asking me if I wanted to continue. “Yeah, sure,” I responded sarcastically with blood trickling down my chin. I didn’t want to be a quitter, but then the referee had mercy on me, ending the fight in the middle of the second round.

My opponent was declared the winner by technical knockout. They gave her a trophy and me a participation medal, which, in my probably concussed state, I clumsily attempted to remove, hands still taped into my gloves. They sent me right to the nurse on standby. She declared my bloody nose unbroken, but gave me some ice and ibuprofen for the pain and swelling. For a nose that wasn’t broken, it sure did bleed a lot that night and for a week after every tissue I blew into turned pink.

My husband asked me where I wanted to go after the fight. He took me to Friendly’s for a clown sundae from the kids menu. It was stupid, but that was the most comforting thing I could think of. That derpy melted bastard looked exactly how I felt so I made him disappear in less time than it took to lose my first and only boxing match.

I learned some important things that night. I am not a fighter. It’s okay to quit something after you try it and decide it’s not for you. Nobody is keeping score in life. You get to decide when you are done. Maybe it is a phase and that’s okay.