by Amy Schumer
I look in the mirror one more time to see if I can get away without wearing a bra, and decide it's fine. Then I'm in the back of some sweaty cab that smells like chicken noodle soup, suggesting alternate routes and half-yelling at a cabbie. I need to get to JFK in under an hour. Fuck, why do I always do this?
I don't plan well. I think it's because secretly I hope I miss my flight. Actually, I'm mad I ever have to go anywhere. I got this offer to perform one night in Dubai at the Palladium theater about a month ago. Images of different rap videos flashed through my head: Puffy on a tank in the desert. Kanye in a Range Rover with dunes behind him. Biggie in Bed-Stuy, standing in a sandbox. Plus, my layover is in Istanbul. Scenes from Midnight Express appear in my mind and then I remember how delicious Turkish delight sounded in The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe. Food wins."Yes" I say.
This is a new thing I’m doing. My first instinct is always to say no (which certainly isn't reflected in the number of people I've had sex with). But I was ready for this. I was in the mood to see some shit, to hand someone my passport in a foreign land and feel alive. About three days before I leave, more paperwork comes in. I sign a contract saying that while on stage I won't talk about their political leader. Um, no problem. I don't know who their leader is. Don't talk about religion. Done and done.
Still, it’s a foreign concept to censor my material, and it takes traveling halfway around the world to understand just how oppressive that country can be. It literally and figuratively keeps me up at night, too; in the coming two weeks, I’ll struggle with an Ambien addiction while claiming my independence in a country that treats women as possessions.
First I have to get there. My cab arrives at JFK and I immediately walk to the biz class lounge, putting cheddar wedges and water crackers on my plate the way I think a rich person would. The goal is to match everyone else’s silent snobbery and act like I'm always in these privileged shit holes. I now realize I should have worn a bra. I'm trying to look regal balancing chardonnay, cheese and a laptop and flopping all over the place near children and possible diplomats. I open up my computer after a healthy sip of vino, deciding now will be a good time to Google the places I'm going. This is my normal routine. Like I said, I don’t plan well. I don't look at the weather of my destination until my bags are checked, which has meant borrowing coats in Denver and buying gross bathing suits in Virginia Beach. It’s 120 degrees in Dubai, and apparently I have to cover up all my lady parts. Oh well, too late. Other topics pop up, and the one that catches my eye (other than the indoor ski slope) is the one with the words, "Arrested for Ambien.”
My stomach drops. I specifically Google “Ambien in Dubai.” I discover it's illegal there. Of course it is. Even people who come with their pills in the prescription bottle and a note from their doctor? Jail time. It's a gray area, some people say on the message boards. I am pretty sure “Gray Area” is not a term used in Sharia Law. (I have been following Amanda Knox since day one and she is innocent.) I’d rather not do a real life reenactment of Brokedown Palace. I don't want to be a story people learn from.
Why is this alarming? Amy, don't you know you're not supposed to take Ambien every night? Yes, yes I have heard that. But no one ever told me that if you take it every night and want to get off of it, the withdrawal is comparable to that of heroin.
I look in the mirror one more time to see if I can get away without wearing a bra, and decide it's fine. Then I'm in the back of some sweaty cab that smells like chicken noodle soup, suggesting alternate routes and half-yelling at a cabbie. I need to get to JFK in under an hour. Fuck, why do I always do this?
I don't plan well. I think it's because secretly I hope I miss my flight. Actually, I'm mad I ever have to go anywhere. I got this offer to perform one night in Dubai at the Palladium theater about a month ago. Images of different rap videos flashed through my head: Puffy on a tank in the desert. Kanye in a Range Rover with dunes behind him. Biggie in Bed-Stuy, standing in a sandbox. Plus, my layover is in Istanbul. Scenes from Midnight Express appear in my mind and then I remember how delicious Turkish delight sounded in The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe. Food wins."Yes" I say. This is a new thing I’m doing. My first instinct is always to say no (which certainly isn't reflected in the number of people I've had sex with). But I was ready for this. I was in the mood to see some shit, to hand someone my passport in a foreign land and feel alive. About three days before I leave, more paperwork comes in. I sign a contract saying that while on stage I won't talk about their political leader. Um, no problem. I don't know who their leader is. Don't talk about religion. Done and done.
Still, it’s a foreign concept to censor my material, and it takes traveling halfway around the world to understand just how oppressive that country can be. It literally and figuratively keeps me up at night, too; in the coming two weeks, I’ll struggle with an Ambien addiction while claiming my independence in a country that treats women as possessions.
First I have to get there. My cab arrives at JFK and I immediately walk to the biz class lounge, putting cheddar wedges and water crackers on my plate the way I think a rich person would. The goal is to match everyone else’s silent snobbery and act like I'm always in these privileged shit holes. I now realize I should have worn a bra. I'm trying to look regal balancing chardonnay, cheese and a laptop and flopping all over the place near children and possible diplomats. I open up my computer after a healthy sip of vino, deciding now will be a good time to Google the places I'm going. This is my normal routine. Like I said, I don’t plan well. I don't look at the weather of my destination until my bags are checked, which has meant borrowing coats in Denver and buying gross bathing suits in Virginia Beach. It’s 120 degrees in Dubai, and apparently I have to cover up all my lady parts. Oh well, too late. Other topics pop up, and the one that catches my eye (other than the indoor ski slope) is the one with the words, "Arrested for Ambien.”
My stomach drops. I specifically Google “Ambien in Dubai.” I discover it's illegal there. Of course it is. Even people who come with their pills in the prescription bottle and a note from their doctor? Jail time. It's a gray area, some people say on the message boards. I am pretty sure “Gray Area” is not a term used in Sharia Law. (I have been following Amanda Knox since day one and she is innocent.) I’d rather not do a real life reenactment of Brokedown Palace. I don't want to be a story people learn from.
Why is this alarming? Amy, don't you know you're not supposed to take Ambien every night? Yes, yes I have heard that. But no one ever told me that if you take it every night and want to get off of it, the withdrawal is comparable to that of heroin.
