She introduced me and I stood up as the audience applauded.  She could have been miles away and I still would have heard her call my name.  Just minutes earlier, she had asked me how I wanted to be introduced, and despite requesting that they say nothing, I ended up with, “Jamie Bliss is a local blogger and was once peed on by a tiger.” 

            As my head rose above those still seated, I reflected on that fateful moment when I was forced to divulge a fun fact about myself and, for some reason, decided this was the most interesting thing about me.  I now was living in regret of that horrible decision.  If I bombed, I’d be the weird girl who got peed on by a tiger.  If I killed it, I’d be the weird girl who got peed on by a tiger, but who is kind of funny.

            She gave me a look that told me I was safe.  That everything would be okay.  That she supported me. 

            It was an unusually hot day for September in Chicago and the seemingly simple effort of rising from a chair immediately multiplied the already countless beads of sweat dripping down my spine.  The deliberately hipster outfit I had chosen for the occasion – a printed maxi dress that I wore as a skirt and a denim shirt tied over it with the sleeves rolled up– became exponentially more soaked in nervous energy. 

            I glanced back at he whom I refer to as “Sensei” (whose hair was so drenched with sweat, it was as if he were taking sink baths in the bathroom every few minutes) and clumsily climbed over the legs of the person seated next to me, the one person I had invited that night, the receptionist from work.  Her intensity is the reason she was the only person I allowed to come.  It was also the reason I now avoided eye contact with her.

             I stepped over the third and last person in my row and finally entered the aisle.  The absence of air conditioning exaggeratedthe used-bookstore smell.  Or that stench was the amalgam of everyone’s BO.  Hard to say.  I tried not to look at anyone’s face as I began the unforeseeably long trip from my seat to the front of the room.  As I actively talked myself into putting one foot in front of the other, I accidentally looked directly at the girl who just had announced that I once was dripping in tiger urine much like I now was dripping in sweat.

            I clutched my half-page of notes, now damp from my clammy hand, even though no more than ten minutes earlier (I was only the second performer), they had boasted their no-notes rule.  Sorrynotsorry.  As I slowed my stride past her, I mumbled something to acknowledge that I was “taking my notes anyway,” like a rebellious teenager to an ever-supportive mother.  Except she’s not my mother, I ruined everything, and she’ll never love me unconditionally. 

            I didn’t plan on using them, even; they were merely a security blanket.  From helping me organize my thoughts to fanning me in the unwavering heat, I needed them by my side.  Just as they always had been.  (If it were socially acceptable to suck my thumb at that point, I’d probably have been doing that as well.) 

            With each step, I traveled farther outside my comfort zone.  Farther than I had ever been.  Could ever have imagined to be. 

            I turned right and passed directly in front of the first row, my perfectly “low-effort” outfit now completely saturated; it clung to my skin so exactly, you could see the most intimate outline of my belly button.  I might as well have worn a unitard. 

            I placed my security blanket down on the bookshelf that separated the “stage” from the front door and cautiously removed my hand from it.  Stepping away methodically, I centered myself on the rug and finally looked up at the faces that were already fixed on mine.  I took a deep breath.  I made it.