Many years ago, I won a happy hour and show tickets for myself and 9 of my friends at a comedy club downtown that had just opened and was trying to generate business. I can't even remember the name of the place--only that it ended up closing pretty quickly--but I found a show I wanted to see and invited my friends.
Sadly, the act we saw that evening has long since disbanded. Our entertainment for the evening was The Impromptones, a group of three or four fellas who did improv comedy in song. Prior to the comedy portion of the evening, we indulged ourselves in the happy hour portion of the evening; the club had given me 20 drink tickets--two each for the group. Except that a couple of my friends ended up not being able to make it at the last minute, so we redistributed their tickets. As I recall, I was all too willing to take one (or three) for the team, and by the time the show started, I was quite happy indeed.
Often, improv comedy takes suggestions from the audience, or asks the audience to participate in some way. So when The Impromptones asked where the beautiful people were sitting that night, the vodka in my veins directed me to point at our group with both hands in the air. One of the guys came over with a microphone and asked me if I had any good luck charms. I must have looked confused (actually, I was just drunk) because he rephrased the question: if I had a job interview, what would I be sure to take with me for good luck?
My good luck underwear, of course.
Of course! Of course I would choose that moment to reveal the secret of my good luck underwear to seven of my friends and the entire comedy club. Thank you, vodka.
Sensing a comedy goldmine--or possibly just realizing that I had imbibed in some truth serum--the comedy dude pursued his line of questioning to it's natural conclusions. If I had good luck underwear, did I also have bad luck underwear?
Yes, yes I did.
I thought one of my friends was going to puke from laughing so hard. I tried to just stop talking, but as it turns out, drunken Guava sitting in a spotlight faced with a man with a microphone is a recipe for no-holds-barred personal revalations. He asked another question: if some of my underwear was bad luck, why did I keep it?
Well, because I want to give it another chance. Another chance to become good luck underwear.
That's right, friends. Not only am I a weirdo who has good and bad luck underwear, I like to give my bad luck underwear another chance. And I was helpless to stop myself from telling what seemed like the entire world right then.
The Impromptones went on to sing a hilarious song about good luck underwear and bad luck underwear, and I admit I laughed until I cried. Sure, my face was beet red throughout the song, but at least we all had fun, right? If the number of people who yelled "good luck underwear" at me on my way out of the club that evening is any indication, then we certainly did all have fun.
So why would I choose to bring up this secret shame today? As it turns out, I should've done laundry last night. Instead, I was out on the town. . .well, out in another town. . .meeting some awesome fun ladies and having a few drinks. I didn't get drunk, and I don't think I spilled any shameful secrets, but I definitely did not attend to my chore list for the evening.
Let's just say I've got my fingers crossed today. Just in case.