I haven’t figured out what I’m going to talk about yet, but tonight I’m doing what is most likely my last ever nude comedy performance.

The first time, it was transcendental. I felt like I was conquering some of my stage fright and just naturally speaking and getting my words out there and it worked. It was an unbelievable, ultimately indescribable experience.

The second time didn’t have the magic of the first. It was fun, but akin to any other good comedy set. It worked, you’re pleased, but the earth spins on its access unaltered. You and the audience go home feeling that it was a pleasant evening, but no one is going to bed still talking about the night.

Now, the third time, I fear will have all of the shine and newness of a truly mundane chore. It might be folding my underwear (as if I would do that) at the laundromat before going home to eat a can of soup.

Likely, it will go fine, but the story from the night will not demand retelling. I will go home content or comfortable but unchanged. (Except, of course, when I realize that by doing it three times I will have wandered into creepy territory, where the novel has become fetish. I should wear a trench coat and a black box over my eyes to disguise my shame. Someone reading this ‘blog, when I hit rock bottom and start doing stand-up at strip bars for $1 in my g-string, just go ahead and punch me in the face.)

The first time I loofahed and depilated for days, tweezing, trimming, shaving, shaping. I bought variously shaded foundation to smooth and contour and hide blemishes on any conceivable surface. I paid attention to my skin, my hair, my nails, and wound up wearing eye, lip and cheek makeup to call attention to my usually prominent visage.

The second time, it was not a multi-process and there were no dry runs to see what looked best and most natural. My skin was clean and I believe I had my hair highlighted and cut beforehand (as they said in junior high, the hair on my head), but I didn’t fuss that much.

Now, the last, perhaps waltzing into seedy land, I am going plastic. I got even lighter highlights the other day and a full set of bitch red acrylic nails. I’m also since yesterday sporting my first ever fake tooth, having a temporary crown resting over a broken and molded nub from the set with which nature started me.

It’s probably an over-compensatory reaction to the hippie earnestness of the group I will be entertaining. I am not a hippie, I am a fallen woman, dyed and painted and put here for your amusement.

My one nod to the hippie naturalness with which I usually am at ease: I’m wearing baggy underpants and a loose-fitting bra for now, so that by show time I won’t have deep red lines from elastic tension encircling my bod.