My friend wanted to work for Disney World after college graduation, so like a good friend (who had nothing better to do), I went with her. And just for kicks, I interviewed.

A perfect way to ramp up my interviewing skills, I figured. So when they asked me if I spoke any other languages, “Mais oui,” I lied. Technically, it’s not a lie when you’re making conversation. Plus, I placed out of French in college, so that made me fluent-ish.

And that’s how I got a job working at It’s A Small World that I ethically had to turn down. (They didn’t take me seriously when I said I’d move to Orlando, did they?)

If only all interviews could go so smoothly, heck, if only life could be such an easy ride, but it’s not. We get scared and take life way too seriously, or at least me, and before we know it, we’re not having fun anymore.

Talk about not having fun. We’ve just lived through Covid, remember?

I have to remind myself of that because I tend to forget having lived through a small thing like cancer. The two get mixed up in my mind, like a day at Disney World.

And maybe because I can’t tell the two apart, anyway, that’s why my personal cancer story feels like our collective Covid story.

Whether a small c or a big C, “It’s a small world after all.”

We had to muddle through somehow. So I wrote through the whole scary experience to amuse us both–always a good friend.

And just for kicks, if conversation should fail me, I modeled my muse after My Stroke Of Insight.

It was my first ever TED Talk favorite. The brain scientist, Jill Bolte Taylor, gives a play-by-play of her mind during her stroke.

Like Taylor, I did a little documentation of my own: what it felt like to go through chemo. That way, through the worst of it, I wasn’t a cancer patient–a kid, merely going through a job interview just for kicks.

If I could laugh through the worst thing that ever happened to me week after week, even when I was too scared to write, I hoped, like Taylor, I’d have something positive to show for the experience.

I told my chemo doctor about this unscientific study that I had been conducting. After all, a lot is going on when our cells get killed off.

He said he doesn’t like to use the word “kill,” he prefers to use the word “suspend” instead. And scientists have studied the brain on chemo, but there have been no conclusive results.

I told him, “Call it what you will; I’ll call it what I do. What you call suspend, I call die–we’re talking the same language.” I’m not sure what studies he’s talking about, but mine won me the No-Bell Prize–just saying.

But chemo’s only one part of the ride. I never got around to telling you about my first surgery, EVER. And I still have plenty of treatment ahead of me. So there are lots more stories to tell. (I’ll keep them all honest, just in case you want to hire me).

Whether it’s a world of laughter or fears, we’ve got to get off the ride at some point. Get out of our element.

Oddly, the only social element I’ve had since August has been my visits to the hospital, where I entertain the doctors and nurses who’ve been saving my life.

It’s not like I’m Bob Hope, so they’re not expecting much in that department, but my friends who haven’t seen me since I’ve had a great fall with cancer? They only remember me the way I was.

And so, we had our first socially distanced get-together outside with like-vaccinated friends last night. It was a Great Gatsby-style “Roaring Out Of 2020 Into 2021” auction.

And though I was going to be around friends, and I had the perfect outfit to wear, and I had the best date (and caregiver) a girl could ask for, I felt like a social misfit–not at all like that cocky college graduate who turned down Disney World.

In-person, I’m not witty the way I once was. I can’t remember the right words; I get overstimulated; without a filter, my stories drag on and on; I need to sit down and get propped against a pillow; I can’t lift my hands in the air even if it’s a great song–need I say more?

On the way to the party from the back seat, I told Alex, “I’m not ready.” Alex reassured me, “It’s not just you, no one’s ready.”

But I let fear get the best of me–exactly what I wasn’t going to let cancer do to me.

And I was right: last night was all those fears I just mentioned. Yeah, I wouldn’t have gotten the job based on that performance. But, if you remember, I wasn’t going to take the job anyway.

We’re not here to impress and be impressed in that glitzy Great Gatsby way. Life isn’t a job interview or a Bob Hope special for that matter.

It’s a small world, and as it re-opens, let’s have that hug, that intimate, in-person conversation, and not lose sight of who we are. Oh, yeah, and have fun dressing up again.