Ah, the nuances of comedy performance. Writing. Timing. Rapport. Even stage height. Oh, and a seemingly uncontrollable body function which has let me down every time I step in front of a mic: sweating like a monkey.
I say monkey because as it happens pigs have non-functioning sweat glands. And "primate" better describes how I feel when the super sexy affliction strikes. Also if I'm being honest I hate monkeys, and I hate sweating, so there. A new expression coined in bitterness.
I can see it in my head. Me, strolling confidently up to the mic, ready to slay my audience. A well dressed young(ish) woman, full of energy! Of promise! BOOM! But what's this? Big circles forming. Dark and deviant alien sweat crop circles spreading out under my arms like damp clockwork. Bastards! At first you think "I'll just hold my arms taut to my body. Sure, I'll look paraplegic and/or like Michael Flatly from the waist up, but... " And then the realisation dawns. Resistance: futile. The sweat is stealing the show like an American production company.
Here's the thing. Whether I'm nervous, calm, or simply trying to enjoy fig rolls, I'm a sweater. I can coin that term too, because you call sweaters "jumpers" here. And believe me I'm no jumper, I'd get way too sweaty if I jumped. My dad was also a sweater so I guess I've inherited that along with his fondness for sarcasm. Sweaty, sarcastic balls of fun, that's us. I love it! As a kid I remember him spraying at least a full can of family size Mitchum on his torso every morning. "So effective you could skip a day" my ASS, Mitchum. Ew, don't get me started about ass sweat.
I'm certain that most people haven't even noticed this at my gigs, and this is because I carefully select my wardrobe based on three factors: 1. Absorption rate 2. Opaqueness and 3. Stripeyness and or/Polkadottiness. I'm armed with a closet full of thick cotton patterned dresses. I pretend they're part of my "persona."
Why so much concern, you might ask? After all, we've seen Robin Williams excrete buckets of human saltwater on stage, and he's got hair all over his arms which makes it look all porno. Lee Evans is a profuse sweater, for he is a crazy jumper. And Dom DeLuise, may he rest in peace, looked like he had walked through a carwash every time I saw him as a kid. I thought maybe that's how overweight people had to shower. Sorry, cheap fat joke, made because I feel self-conscious about my own sad little problem.
Now let's make way for the gender blah blah! Because c'mon, women aren't received with much forgiveness when they showcase their body's natural temperature regulation system. And that's all mine is doing - regulating temperature. And dealing with some fight or flight shit I don't feel like getting into. Which sadly, from all accounts, I seem to be fucking awesome at. I bet I maintain a steadier temp than HOARDS of overheated, dry pitted bitches out there. Meah. There's a deodorant in the states called Secret, and the old tagline was "women sweat, too." Problem was, the portrayal of a sweaty woman was a model jogging with misty perspiration on her décolletage. If only real sweat was seen as sexy, the way hard nipples were in the 90s.
Alas, it will never happen. Just look at the flak Christina Aguilera took for her recent performance at Etta James' funeral. A drop of sweat rolled down her leg, and damn, if all the photographers in the world weren't there to capture it. Granted, it was orange, which raises some valid grooming questions, but still. She's at a funeral, let the lady perspire a little while she belts out a song. Humpfh.
I confess, I'm only half-heartedly playing the female card because actually, that drip was totally gross to me. And apparently to Christina, who rubbed her legs together like a cricket to get rid of it. Besides even if I won the battle of the sexes on the skin drip front, I don't know if it would make me feel any less like Norm from Cheers when the pit rings start to appear.
At the root of this, I don't want to be seen as weak on stage. Nervous. Incompetent. Because although sometimes I might be nervous, the rest of the time it's just part of the adrenaline rush. The surge of energy and performance and urgency that comes with comedy. The part I LOVE, the part I'm addicted to. I'm an addict, and my sweat rings are my track marks.
Yeah, that helps.