Clown School Dropout

I just read a news story about a local jewelry store that was robbed by people dressed as clowns. I just want to say: I didn’t do it. I do have a clown nose. The fake red bulbous kind, I mean, not my real nose. But it’s packed away in a box somewhere. Or, actually, I think I let the kids play dress up with it when they were little, so it is probably long gone now. As are most of the accoutrements of my days as a clown. It is probably for the best. I made a lousy clown anyway.

I don’t often think about my clown school days. But, once in a while, something reminds me that I did, actually, attend clown school. I don’t really know why. It was the 80s. I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to do with my life. Could have been the influence of the era's make up styles. Perhaps I had a crush on Boy George. I don’t know, maybe it was because Ronald Reagan was President and it seemed the whole country was becoming clownish. Whatever the reason, one day, on a whim, I enrolled in clown school.

Anna was telling some friends about my clowning adventures the other day. The way she put it made me laugh. “My mom went to clown school once. But she hated it so she decided to get a PhD.” It didn’t exactly happen that way. The clowning came in the year between graduating with a bachelor's degree and starting work toward a master’s degree.

The whim to get a PhD came a few years later.

Anyway, I truly don’t have any idea what possessed me to go to clown school since I didn’t even like clowns. But there I was, at the local community college, sitting in a florescent-lit classroom with a small group of people, all eager to learn how to apply clown make-up, properly attach a butt cheek prosthesis, and juggle.

Our teacher was Whistles the Clown. Which I’m pretty sure was the name of my college biology professor too. Regardless, Whistles taught us everything we needed to know about being a clown. Our homework was to come up with a name, design a costume, and adopt a clown persona. I became the shy, unassuming, Collie-Fleur the Clown.

I made two friends in clown school. Kapoodles and Izzy. Both were young men close to my age, and both wanted to become professional clowns. It probably goes without saying that these were not your typical men in their 20s. But I liked them because, as unconventional as becoming a clown was, they were pursuing what they wanted to do.

I, however, was not.

Whistles lined up a few clowning gigs for us and I faced each one with utter dread. I truly hated being a clown. I truly hated clowns. My juggling skills were abominable. I couldn’t blow up those skinny balloons for balloon animals. I’ve never liked slapstick comedy; the whole Jerry Lewis thing escaped me. The make-up itched and whenever I took on my Collie-Fleur persona I experienced this strange transformation and became self-conscious, introverted and shy. Things I rarely experienced in my non-clownish form.

It was all just too weird.

So, after two semesters of clown school I kissed Kapoodles and Izzy goodbye, and hung up my clown shoes. Shortly thereafter, with the same lack of direction and reasoning, I applied to grad school. Fortunately, that was a much better fit.

I am grateful for my clown school days, though. In spite of it all, I had fun. I learned some things about myself. I met interesting people. And it makes for a good story. If I had it to do over again, I’d still go to clown school on a whim!

All of life is a collection of experiences. It makes us who we are. Granted, with a bit more forethought I could have figured out I wasn’t clown material. But, with too much forethought I would have missed the experiences I had. I wouldn’t have met the interesting people I met. I wouldn’t have learned how to wear a butt prosthesis. Too much analysis makes for too little whimsy. And oh, the joys of whimsy!

Whimsy brings spontaneity to life. Whimsy gives us the unexpected. Whimsy adds color.

I probably wouldn’t have liked being a clown any better if I’d adopted the name Whimsy the Clown. I just wasn’t meant to be a clown.

I was, however, meant to regularly engage a bit of life’s whimsy.