Flyer Neurosis
// July 21st, 2007 // Blog, Kris's Soapbox
Originally written for my CBC Performer Blog:
No matter how much you plan and plan and pack and plan, you’re bound to forget to bring something on your ten-week tour of the country. Things like shaving cream and toothpaste are easy to remember, of course, but other more irregular items can be forgotten. I take great pride, for example, in the fact that I remembered my Ukrainian heritage and thought to pack my versatile ear and nose hair trimmer. I cannot imagine the shame of meeting all you nice Winnipeg folk knowing that as I hand you a flyer, you could be fixated on a single eight-inch-long hair protruding from my right nostril.
I have, for some time, been painfully aware that I forgot to pack something. There are many things I am not picky about — using Fringe porta-potties that have been baking in 35-degree heat, for example — but I am choosy about how I rid myself of the constant growth of my finger and toenails. I know people who chew them, who tear them off, or who have perfected oddly intriguing methods of picking at them to keep them short. I am not one of those people. Nor do I trust myself to cut my nails with a full-sized pair of scissors: I still have an unsightly scar from the Great Trim Attempt of 1995. I require a set of proper nail clippers for my personal grooming… and I did not pack any.
For the past week or so I have become increasingly neurotic over the length of my fingernails. A few days ago, I began to fear that I would end up indavertently poking out one of my own eyes while trying to use my ear/nose hair trimmer. By this morning I was convinced that the grotesque length of my nails — nearing some 3 or 4 millimetres at least — was going to become a concern for potential audience members. “I was going to see his show,” they’d say, “but when he tried to hand me a flyer I thought he was trying to maul my face!”
This afternoon, it came to a head. I tried to hand a flyer to someone who politely declined it, and convinced myself that it was the terrifying length of my nails that was the cause of the demure denial. I instantly began to pout, and then ran off to the drugstore to purchase an ergonomically-designed E-Z-Grip pair of stainless steel nail clippers that must have been designed by engineers from heaven. I was so conscious of my Wolverine-like claws that I found myself unable to wait until a proper opportunity arose. Paralyzed by my inability to hand a flyer to anyone, I obsessively tore open the packaging for the clippers right outside my own venue, and proceeded to sheepishly clip my nails (whimpering neurotically) in front of the line-up for If These Tap Shoes Could Talk.
My day went much better after that.
I know I have previously instructed you all, dear readers, to feel free to say no when I offer you a flyer… but perhaps I spoke too soon. I’m too sensitive and neurotic to deal with with that kind of rejection. Take solace, though: if you choose not to take a flyer from me, and I respond by suddenly sobbing and whipping a cordless ear/nose hair trimmer from my pocket, it’s not about you, and please don’t call anyone to have me picked up.
I promise to trim my nose hair before I leave the house tomorrow.
