Screen shot 2012-05-07 at 10.32.07 PMThis weekend was a big weekend. On Sunday, I read my favorite post "Intruder in the House" for the Listen to Your Mother performance in NYC— my first live reading of my writing.

I sat seated on stage before my piece, scanning the sold out seats to pick out familiar faces— my family members, friends and co-workers, so honored they all came to see me. So honored to be amongst such great writers on stage.

I'm not going to lie— I was nervous. I didn't realize I would be nervous until the day of the performace, when old fears began to resurface.

A very long time ago (we're talking back when I wore friendship safety pins on my Keds and slouched E.G. socks over my jeans), I had dreams of being a Broadway actress.

I loved acting and singing and was in countless plays and musical performances up through high school, where I developed a terrible case of stage fright. It seems the combination of being a self-conscious teenager and putting your talents on display in front of your peers do not mix well.

It wasn't enough that I was afraid of performing badly or forgetting the words, I was most afraid of PEEING IN MY PANTS ONSTAGE.

Can you think of anything more embarrassing to happen to a teenage girl in front of their entire student body in a high school auditorium?

I credit my overactive imagination. I was like Speilberg thinking of worst possible end-of-the-world scenarios except on a much smaller scale.

I used to wait until the last possible moment and then try to relieve every last bit of liquid before I took the stage. If I misjudged the timing, I would go back and do it again, whether I had to pee or not, sprinting back from the bathroom to make my entrance— ensuring that I was always in a state of panic when I took the stage.

I remember during a final dress rehearsal, I tried to run through lines while being totally distracted by the supposed fullness of my bladder. You just peed before you got up here, I told myself— it's in your head.

Then my sub-conscious dared me to let my bladder loose to prove a point.

I remember the small trickle of pee that slid down my leg before I could stop it, then trying to get through the scene while wondering if anybody noticed. (Keep in mind— this was in high school, not after I had my fifth kid.)

It was enough to make me give it up for good.

Until Sunday.

I peed about twenty times before finally walking on stage, one last time practically delaying the opening of the show— old habits die hard.

And I thanked the production gods for putting me third in the line-up so I could get it over with and enjoy the rest of the show stress-free.

Once I was up there reading, I wish I could say that a different animal immediately took over. But I became very aware of my leg shaking as I began and silently cursed the fact that I had worn heels.

But the audience was very receptive and when I started listing the items my daughter had stolen from me to the 911 operator (read the piece if you have no idea what I am talking about), they erupted in laughter and applause so loud that I actually had to wait until it died down to continue.

There is nothing that feeds a performer more than laughter from an audience. I tried to soak up each moment for all it was worth.

When I sat back down, my intial reaction was one of relief. Not only had it gone well, but I had made it back to my seat with my bladder fully in tact.

But as I watched the other performers take the stage, it occured to me— I WANTED TO DO IT AGAIN.

I'm too old to let a teenage fear take away from a truly spectacular moment.

Next time, if there is a next time— I want the freedom to just enjoy it.

It's time to put this fear to bed.

Or lock it in the bathroom, where it belongs.

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What fear do you wish would die an ugly death?