Rarely did I head to a birthday party without a tearful panic attack beforehand.
My favorite bad clown story:
The parents and adults, all of whom were Mexican, sat in chairs that lined all four walls of the room, drinking Coronas and watching me in silence. I had done my magic show, and it was time for the dancing games. I proceeded to lead the children in the hokey pokey and all of them but the birthday girl hid in the next room, occasionally peering in.
The birthday girl and her friend danced for a moment and stopped, so I did the hokey pokey and chicken dance alone in the middle of the room while the adults watched, sipping, sipping.
I broke a sweat. My makeup poured into my eyes. I couldn’t do much about it, this was prior to learning the value of oil-based face paint, powder, and the hanky. The mom looked at me with concern and brought me napkins, which I had to use more than I’d have liked and a soda.
Fortunately, the rest of the party went smoothly, once I sat myself down and painted faces and whatnot. Once it was time to go, I was given a big hug and asked for my business card and whatnot. I guess my little nightmare moment was only in my head and didn’t permeate the heads of those around me.
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