Self-improvment
I’ve been taking an improv class because I’m a firm believer in—but only occasional practitioner of—confronting your anxieties before they infest you. When self-consciousness is a bit of a problemo, the last thing you want any part of is an activity that pins you to the moment.
My classmates, to a person, actually, are decent and friendly. But of the 15 people in the course, I think there are only three of us who have never studied improv before. They say you learn more from your betters, and that’s true, but you feel more secure around your inferiors. I mean, would it have been too much to ask for one person to whimper for mommy or experience a petit mal seizure?
When I’m allowed to stand perfectly still or sit side by side with someone in folding chairs, I’m very much capable of co-creating a premise and dialogue. But if I have to involve my body in any way, if my limbs have to do anything besides hang there and wait for me to stop talking, ugliness ensues. We did one exercise that was called “A Day in the Life,” which basically asked us to invent a story while going through our morning rituals in an imagined living space. People seemed skilled at negotiating their environments—the bedroom is here, the bathroom is there, there’s a window here, and so on. I think I recreated “Guernica.”
I’ve missed two classes straight, which will surprise no one familiar with my history of dropping continuing-education courses midstream. Traditionally, I’ve done so for a few reasons:
- Astonishingly, the same organization that offers courses in juggling and armchair-travel adventures to Tuscany is failing to provide the rigorous liberal-arts curriculum I expected.
- I’m not really excited about dating anyone in the class.
- The course schedule conflicts with my unwillingness to expend effort.
But I’m committed to finishing this one. Some sort of grown-up foolishness about finishing things.
My God, I just used the word “foolishness.” I’m not just a grown-up, I’m a WWII vet.
Now I have to look for work. The diner near my house is looking for a lavaplatos. That means associate editor, right?