Once I got back to my hotel, I had a vivid image of myself on my deathbed. I imagined what I’d be thinking as I took my last breaths. I don’t know how I was dying, but I didn’t look that old in my vision, which means I either think I’m gonna die young or that I’m going to get many a facelift. Anyway, I’m lying there dying. I wasn’t on my deathbed thinking “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on friendships! I just wished I had spent more time curling my eyelashes!” I doubt any woman on her deathbed said, “I just wished I had worn more blush! I can’t believe I wasted all that stupid quality time with my dumb children!” Chances are, I’m going to look back and wish I spent more time with people I love, trying to make an impact on the world, and eating fondue.
My conversation with the girls at the mall has haunted me for years, but for that day, their self-possessed vibe gave me more confidence about going onstage in front of a Middle Eastern crowd. I had to perform in front of a couple thousand Middle Easterners in just a few hours, and I was grateful that I no longer had the irrational fear that I would get stoned by someone in the audience, even though I was so nervous that I was secretly hoping someone would find me some weed and get me the other kind of stoned.
When I go to a foreign country to perform, or even to various states in America, I’ll write some specific jokes to cater to that area. People are paying money to see my show, and I feel it’s only fair that I address anything I find ridiculous about their hometown. I thought about doing this for Dubai but ultimately decided not to, not only because I was completely confounded by the culture, but also because I felt I shouldn’t pander to them or try to endear them to me; I should just bring my liberated brand of comedy to them to show how we progressive people get down. I would be fearless and strong, demonstrating that women could be badasses, too. Also, if I’m gonna be honest, I was also terrified of offending them or pronouncing a word wrong.
I was having trouble balancing my desire to show them how self-actualized I was with the fact that I was at a complete loss over what to wear. I tried to find the middle ground in between maintaining my identity but also respecting their norms. As much as I resented them, I knew I had to cover my body, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I thought about wearing a giant pink Snuggie, which honestly I’m always looking for an excuse to make my permanent uniform onstage anyway, but it was way too hot. Apparently, I was really into subversive statements mocking and satirizing oppressive culture as long as it didn’t involve my having to sweat.
Then I thought maybe I’d wear jeans and a T-shirt—classic Americana—but that felt slightly passive-aggressive, and I much prefer being actively aggressive. I considered a dress with heels, thus looking as traditionally feminine as possible as an F-you to their suppression of femininity. The problem with that is I have literally never worn a dress, much less heels, onstage, and I figured rolling my ankle while performing would not be conducive to showing the Middle East how strong women could be.
I also considered dressing very sexy, the opposite of how traditional women dress there. Maybe that would make the point that women can be smart, strong, and sexual all at the same time, but I also wanted the women to see me as their ally. I didn’t want them to think I was trying to outshine them or steal their man or something, which, frankly, maybe I would have done, given how into mean guys I was at that time in my life. Pre-therapy, a sexist Middle Eastern dude actually would have been the ultimate aphrodisiac.
I settled on bell-bottom jeans that have never been in style, New Balance sneakers, and a black slightly bedazzled blazer. I figured it was androgynous, neutral, and respectable. “Be beige.” Blazers mean power, pants mean business, sneakers mean freedom and comfort. The perfect message to send, I thought. What I didn’t realize is that the message I was actually sending was: In order to be respected as a woman, dress like a man. I wanted my outfit to hide my femininity, for my gender to be invisible. I’m not sure if I accomplished that, but I did accomplish looking like a sexually confused teenage boy from the seventies. Maybe this was the closest thing to a burka we had in America: dressing like a man with a full face of makeup on.
Two comics went onstage ahead of me and both did very well. Both were also men. They may have been dressed less like men than I was, but they were men nonetheless. Now, I’ve never been one to get nervous before I go onstage, even the first time I ever did stand-up, mostly because adrenaline and fear are sort of my comfort zone. But on this night, not only did I feel fear, I also felt pressure. Pressure to be funny of course, but also to be an example. I felt I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I felt like maybe I had to represent America, to represent women, to represent freedom. I felt like maybe if I just nailed this, all the women in the audience might reject their circumstances, wake up, and leave their oppressors. They’d see that life could be different and that they were capable of doing whatever they set their minds to! They, too, could tell dick jokes at night to strangers if they wanted to!
The other obstacle that I was facing, besides an ancient patriarchy, was that the show was in an outdoor venue. I’m sure that the idea of doing comedy outside sounds super fun to noncomedians, but the truth is that outdoor venues are a mess because the laughs tend to dissipate into the sky instead of bouncing off walls and ceilings. So for this show all I had to rely on were my emotional walls and the glass ceiling.
I couldn’t believe it was my turn to go up. I guess time flies when you’re having fear. I remember being brought up with a glowing, super complimentary intro that was probably intended to get the audience on my side, but it ended up just making me feel more pressure.
Everyone asks if being a female in comedy (in America) is hard, and I never have a good answer because I feel like everyone has a hard job. It’s hard to be a male and a female in any career because working sucks sometimes. I shudder when I think about what accountants must have to do all day. I can barely remember my cell phone passcode, much less be able to sit at a desk and add all day. Every job blows. I’m just grateful that mine doesn’t involve blow jobs.
That said, the one thing that does nettle me is when being a female is the focus of my intro—that is to say, “You’re going to love this next comedian, she’s a lady!” or “Are you guys ready for a girl comic?” as if to warn the audience that a female is coming on, so if they need to go make a call or take a bathroom break, now’s the time. I know this isn’t malicious, but pointing out that I’m a girl before I get onstage always seems a little odd, since nobody ever makes intros like that for any other career. No customer service rep warns you, “I’m sending an insurance adjuster over to survey the property. Just a heads-up, it’s a lady!” No hostess at a restaurant says, “Your server will be right with you. It’s a guy! Enjoy!” And even within the comedy world, we also don’t specify anything else about the comedian besides gender. No show host ever says, “This next comedian is black!” or “Next up is a homosexual comedian. Keep it going for the gay guy!”
“Keep it going for Whitney Cummings!”
Oof.