Strength to Laugh at Yourself

They say that many people are more afraid of public speaking than of dying. Although I don’t know for sure, I assume it’s because of the fear of embarrassment. It prevents some of us from ever attempting new challenges or accomplishing goals. So where do we find the courage to stand up to sweaty palms and a red face? Where do we find the strength?

A few years ago, I was asked to speak at the home of a woman who helped organize a book festival. My speech’s goal was to encourage people to attend the event, as well as offer financial assistance to the program.

It was about a month before my book, The Chicken Dance, was published and I was still nervous about speaking in front of groups. But I was more concerned about the impact my speech could have on my career as a young adult writer.

So I wrote down exactly what I wanted to say and memorized it. Then I practiced in front of a mirror, making sure that my hands didn’t gesture too much, and that I didn’t make any funny faces.

On the night of the event, I drove to the house early and parked my car nearby. I watched people walking in to ensure that I wasn’t under or over dressed. I was wearing khaki pants, a blue and white shirt, and a navy striped tie that I hoped made me look like a writer, and not like I was attending a first communion or going on an Easter egg hunt.

After I rehearsed my speech in my rearview mirror about four times, and I was sure that my clothes were appropriate, I got out of my car and walked towards the house. But as I stepped up to the front door, my reflection in the glass told me to re-tuck my shirt.

So as soon as I was inside of the house, I went to the bathroom and unfastened my pants to neatly re-tuck my shirt into a crisp fold. Then I stepped out into the party, introduced myself to a few people and found refuge by the food table. It was a beautiful spread complete with sandwiches, sweets and shrimp. I have a weakness for free food, (If it’s free, it’s me) but restrained myself because I didn’t want to risk staining my clothes.

When it came time for me to speak in front of the group, the hostess introduced me and I had the floor. It was not my reflection in a mirror staring at me anymore, but instead about thirty adults only a few feet away. At that moment, their opinions were all that mattered to me, and little beads of embarrassment rolled down my torso.

But I faced my fear and gave my speech exactly as I’d rehearsed it. The group laughed in the right places, and seemed to relax themselves as if hearing a longtime friend making a toast at a wedding.

When I was through, I stepped a few feet to the side so the hostess could have the floor again to talk about the book festival and to hand out souvenir posters. I had calmed down tremendously, and was glad that I hadn’t let my fear of embarrassment control me.

But right before I was just about to sneak away to the food table, I noticed a napkin on the ground. When I bent over to pick it up, something else grabbed my attention. It was an innocent, yet vulgar detail like a red wine stain on a carpet or a poison ivy rash making its way towards the crevice of my buttocks.

It needed to be resolved immediately, and because I was so interested in taking care of the matter at hand, I forgot where I was standing. I didn’t hear the party hostess speaking about how the book festival was going to encourage young readers and help writers promote their work. Nor did I see the group of guests gazing in my direction. These two facts were oblivious to me when I zipped up my pants and readjusted myself as if slipping on a warm pair of jeans pulled from the drier.

The sound of the zipper on its treads awoken me, and I realized what was happening. I had exposed and unexposed one part of myself, but another part was about to be projected like a movie on a screen. Would it be the courage of a writer who found the humor in it all? Or would it be the embarrassment of a young man who’d given a speech with the lid off of his jack-in-the-box?

In my mind, I’d destroyed my career and given all young adult writers a bad name. My actions would end up on Youtube, and I’d receive hate mail from J.K. Rawling and Judy Blume.

Every embarrassing moment I’d ever experienced flashed through my mind and pushed me towards the door to escape from humiliation. But as horrible as some of them seem, it occurred to me that they’d never killed me. I’d even recovered enough to write a book and be asked to promote a festival. I knew I had worked too hard to give up on my dream because of a zipper mistake. Plus, if I had left the party then, I would have missed out on the souvenir poster and free jumbo shrimp.

So I found the strength that night to ask the hostess for the floor again. Then I joked about my unzipped pants, and begged the group for their forgiveness. They roared with laughter, which dissolved the threats of embarrassment.

My momma often tells me, “If you don’t laugh, you cry. If you cry all of the time, you die. And nobody is in a state of grace to go anyway.”

I often find guidance in her words. They help me to accept mistakes, and to see the humor in life. Through them and the treads of a zipper, I find the courage to stand up to embarrassment, and the strength to laugh at myself.