I can take a joke. I love comedy. In fact, I enjoy stand-up in a way that is probably pathological.
But ... the energy of the last show I went to has stuck with me in a way that I’m still trying to untangle.
I’ve been called out before. I don’t hesitate to sit up front. I’m generally unconcerned about what the interaction is going to be. I don’t embarrass easily and am the first one to be self-deprecating. It’s all a joke. It’s humor. It’s an art form, sometimes unrealistic, sometimes driven by shock value, and always to get a reaction. And a lot of times those reactions are uncomfortable ... and, like the creep that I am, I like it.
But something about this last show felt ... I don’t know what the word is ... yet.
I’d gone to an open mic alone. It’s not super unusual for me. I sometimes go with friends, but I also don’t wait for other people to enjoy the things I love. This was a night where most everyone I reached out to was homebodying in the cold or introverting alone after a long week, and I needed the opposite: give me laughter! Weirdness! Awkward silence! A steak salad and a cabernet!
I knew there would be an open mic at a venue I’ve grown to adore, so I went in, ordered my dinner and a drink, and sat by myself with my notebook ... fully prepared to write a different story than the one I’m writing now.
After about an hour and a half of performances, I was ready to go, but the show was still going. On my way out, I chatted with one of the hosts who informed me that only a few comics were left, so I decided to hang tight in the back until it was over. As a huge proponent of “stay til the end and watch everyone” leftover from my dance recital days, I settled in with a smile.
“Is no one going to talk about the MILF that was sitting here?” A new face shouts out into the mic.
I look around with everyone else, wondering who this guy’s referring to.
“There she is – now she’s sitting in the back.”
Crickets. I hear chairs squeak around awkwardly to look ...
At me.
I’m pretty sure I said out loud, “What the actual fuck is happening right now?”
Looks were exchanged. Laughter ensued.
It was a moment of stimulation overload as people chatted about me, to me, and around me while laughter carried on, and add-on jokes were thrown around, keeping the bit alive.
I left the venue laughing but woke up the next morning feeling ... what’s the word I’m looking for here?
That night I met up with friends and was regaling the tale which one of my girlfriends referred to as “mortifying.”
“I would’ve run out of there screaming of embarrassment,” my friend said. “But ... logically ... I mean ... most people our age DO have children.”
Delayed feminist discomfort. Is that what I’m feeling? Evidently, I look like a mom, but like, a fuckable one? Honestly, what does this even mean? How about those of us who abhor the idea of reproducing? Or worse, what if I were incapable of conceiving? What a stab to the ute that would be. I mean, are moms supposed to be matronly? Because they’ve carried a human being or six inside their womb, they’re apparently no longer capable of giving off sex appeal?
I mean, joke’s on you because they got pregnant somehow.
At strictly face value, the word is gross. Like, if you’re going to be me and analyze it within an inch of its etymology, historical context, and what kind of patriarchal bullshit brought this word to the forefront? Puke.
However, the term was popularized by the movie American Pie. While the majority of moms on film traditionally are sporting, well, mom jeans, sweaters pasted with sunflowers, and bangs left over from 1985, one of the mothers in this particular movie is hot. Like hot hot. Like, doesn’t matter how old she is, this woman has GOT it. She oozes sex appeal and my God, it is every hormone-fueled teenager’s dream to bag her.
So hey, at least I don’t look like Marge Simpson, I guess. Or give The Youth (tm) Mary Mother of Christ vibes. I suppose this is a compliment to the older, of-child-bearing years like myself.
I’ll celebrate these superficial, sexual victories with a scotch, aged 18 years, the way I like it, and with several long drags on a Virginia Slim, you cretons.
Because from here on out, Finch, you can call me Stifler's mom. You're dead.
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