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dries up and I can’t get any words out?

What if I bore the audience? What if I

throw up onstage?

My boyfriend (now my husband),

Ken, watches me toss and turn. He’s bewildered

by my distress. A former UN

peacekeeper, he once was ambushed in

Somalia, yet I don’t think he felt as

scared then as I do now.

“Try to think of happy things,” he

says, caressing my forehead.

I stare at the ceiling, tears welling.

What happy things? Who could be

happy in a world of podiums and

microphones?

“There are a billion people in China

who don’t give a rat’s ass about your

speech,” Ken offers sympathetically.

This helps, for approximately five

seconds. I turn over and watch the

alarm clock. Finally it’s six thirty. At

least the worst part, the night-before

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