They're All Gonna Laugh At You!

Well, now you're all sorry that you didn't go to my improv show, because last night was an amazing one-of-a-kind experience that will probably never be repeated.

The show went on its merry way, being extremely funny and entertaining to all, including audience members A.K., Casey, Dan and Pam. Towards the end, I was doing something that was no doubt HILARIOUS when one of my fellow performers ran on stage. He didn't get very far, though, because he ran into something.

And that something was MY FACE. Specifically, his knee went into my nose. Even though she was sitting in the back of the theater, Pam said she could hear resulting "crunch" sound, followed by my muffled cry of anguish. At this point, the guy who nailed me dragged me offstage and said "please tell me you aren't bleeding!" I looked down at my hand and noticed a small spot of blood and said "no ... " Pam heard that too, as her ears are apparently highly receptive to my voice's unique frequency. She said the way I said "no" was when she realized that I was not okay.

She was pretty much the only person who did realize that, as the rest of my group continued performing and the audience continued laughing, even though the show could not possibly have been as funny without me on stage. I looked down at my hand again and realized that the small spot of blood had grown exponentially in size and, even more upsetting, some of it had gotten on my awesome new jacket. So I ran backstage and got some paper towels, because it wasn't like anyone else was going to get them for me. Then I ran back to the stage, where I was surprised to see the show still going on despite the fact that I had lost a pint of blood on its stage. So I just went back on stage and kept going, because if I was going to be uncomfortable, I wanted to make everyone else in the audience feel that way, too. My improv coach would later describe the audience as being "horrified," which is great, because, as a performer, it's important to be able to elicit many different emotions from your audience. Fortunately, someone took a picture of me, so you can all enjoy the sight for yourselves:

They're all gonna laugh at you!

Anyway, the show ended and we all went backstage, where we were soon joined by Pam, who was ordering people to get me ice and tissues and things, because I couldn't get them for myself and, again, no one else was doing it. The rest of my group checked in to make sure I was okay and then went out into the hallway to get notes for the show, where they were very annoyed at being disturbed by our loud voices as we wondered whether or not I should go to the hospital and showed their displeasure by slamming the door. At this point, Pam decided that she hated everyone in my improv group and all of IO West, a hatred that would only grow when, once I got out to the lobby and was pulled aside by my improv teacher for the show notes I missed while the rest of my group made some passing inquiries as to my health. As for me, my attention was split between the notes and wondering when, exactly, I would be passing out from blood loss. Also, my nose really, really hurt.

A.K. and Casey made sure I was okay before they left and Dan drove my car home while Pam took me home in hers. She had valeted her car, and when we went to the garage to pick it up, I commented that I needed more tissues. Without hestitation, the valet guy produced a roll of toilet paper from, like, the inside of his coat. We would later wonder what, exactly, he was originally going to use that toilet paper for and also how many people come to that garage covered in blood for him to have been so nonchalant and instantaneous in his response. They made sure I was well-equipped with ice and tissues and painkillers and then left. I then spent the next four hours waiting for the blood to stop (it was no longer gushing; just a light trickle), soaking my clothes in Shout, and making plans to buy some iron supplements to prevent anemia.

The next day, my dad called to see how I was. I told him how pissed off Pam was at everyone else's lack of concern, and he said he couldn't really fault my improv coach for it because she's originally from England, where injuries are traditionally treated with the combined healing powers of the Magic Sponge and walking it off. He reminded me of the time about eight years ago when he got hit the face by a soccer ball during a game and proceeded to leak blood and eye fluid all over the field. His teammates kept on playing, and when he said that he was pretty sure he could not play now that his eye socket bone was broken, they said "yeah, okay," and then let him drive himself home.

Sara: I remember that! Oh, it was horrible!
Dad: Yes, my eye almost fell out.
Sara: Worse than that, our vacation to the Bahamas was cancelled! Ryan and I were so upset!
Dad: Right, because I couldn't fly because the pressure change could have made my eye explode.
Sara: We tried to get Mom to take us and leave you at home, but she said no.
Dad: ...
Sara: God, that was an awful time for the whole family.
Dad: ...

To add insult to injury, the ER nurse laughed at him when he told her how he did it, saying she was used to seeing "much younger" men with soccer injuries. Mom, who I should point out was much more sympathetic to my dad than her two children were, urged Dad to stop playing, but he refused to heed her wise words, although he has toned it down a bit and joined an over-40 league. As for me, my nose is not broken and has assholishly decided to swell just enough to make my nose look bigger, but not enough to make it obvious that it was the result of trauma. I can't tell if there's bruising under my eyes or it's just the omnipresent dark circles that always make me look so well-rested. I expect to find additional bruising on my upper lip in the shape of a Hitler moustache because my body hates me. But not as much as Pam hates my improv group.