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BETTER LATE: Miller finds her
niche.
Rod Searcey |
Some people learn life’s
lessons in the school of hard knocks, some by example,
but I sought my answers in the classroom. I managed
to build enough credits for a bachelor’s degree
in education, drift into a master’s in creative
arts, disintegrate into a certificate in library science
and soar to nirvana with a master’s in communication
from the Farm.
The year I graduated, I was sure I had arrived. But
I could not figure out where.
Indeed, it took me a full life span to discover my true
calling. I see me now, standing ankle-deep in a puddle
of water, attempting to swim while those around me splashed
and spattered me with laughter. I remember glorious
proms when my stockings sagged around my ankles, my
strapless dress sunk to half-mast and my date’s
eyebrows soared at the sight of the little I had to
offer. I see myself, a three-time graduate, rushing
to capture the hot story that was yesterday’s
headline. Through this kaleidoscope of near misses and
almost theres, I hear laughter, wild delighted laughter
. . . none of it mine.
Obviously I was put on this earth to make people laugh.
Neither my professors nor my parents nor my husbands
realized my gift. It took Kurtis Matthews at the San
Francisco Comedy College to ignite a genius no one suspected
was there. In my 70th year, I enrolled in his Beginner
Comedy Class with five comedians barely old enough to
be my grandchildren. Matthews has been doing professional
comedy for 14 years, and he knows a joke when he sees
one. He looked me over as I entered class and said,
“You are funny!”
It must have been the red bonnet and the purple gown
that tickled him. In my day, no one went into the City
de-frocked or hatless. My fellow students were not as
careful about their toilette. They appeared: hips tattooed,
tongues and noses pierced, and belly buttons exposed
by sagging jeans. I could see I was hopelessly out of
date. While my dress hinted at what was beneath it,
their see-through tops proclaimed “what you see
is what you get.”
I listened to comic routines that recommended substituting
Ex-Lax for Prozac to feel good, coming out in Sacramento,
and choking chickens before going to work. Why had Stanford
not prepared me for this kind of reality? All I learned
there was how to drink beer until 2 a.m. and get to
my 8 o’clock on time.
What could I tell these sophisticates that they didn’t
already know? I rose to my feet, adjusted my girdle,
shook my bra into place and it came to me. I would explain
underwear! None of them wore it, and they probably weren’t
even familiar with the term. I waxed eloquent on the
advantages of a good merry widow, a solid foundation
and an uplift that could change your attitude even as
it destroyed your innards.
They were amazed.
I knew then I was ready for graduate school. For the
next five weeks, I studied hard, rehearsed my routines
and shattered my assumptions. My fellow students discussed
blow-drying their privates and the delights of an open
marriage. “He has a girlfriend and so do I,”
said our newlywed.
“Does that mean you have three mothers-in-law?”
I asked.
“He does,” she said. “I have a dog.”
We appeared at Cobbs Comedy Club for our final exam.
The crowd had been drinking for an hour while we all
gathered in a love circle to give each other confidence.
“Break a leg,” my classmates said to each
other, and then they smiled at me. “You’ll
be great,” they shouted.
“What did you say?” I asked.
My fellow comedians got on stage and discussed issues
that mattered to them. They talked about baboons in
the gym, the pitfalls of balding and the lies on package
labels. Then it was my turn. “Lynn Ruth is the
only member of our troupe who might die on stage,”
warned Kurtis Matthews.
I nearly did.
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