I was born without the performing gene. By that, I mean my body's never had even a single ounce of desire in it to get on stage and perform. Of course, my body's never had even a single ounce of talent in it, either, so staying out of the spotlight hasn't been too tough, thus far. But even when I used to play dress-up with my sons when they were younger, I usually just volunteered to be the prop master, then took a union break on the couch. Basically, in the great play of life, I'm happy to just sit in the audience while someone else puts on the show. Especially if there's popcorn.
So what was I doing signing up for an Improv comedy class?
There are two answers to that question. First, I had the great opportunity to record a couple of my essays for our local NPR station here in Austin. And, even though this was technically "performing," and even though I get stage fright leaving the outgoing greeting on my voicemail, I still thought it was something I could handle. After all, what could go wrong when you go into a recording booth and read an essay into a microphone?
Apparently a lot, if you're me.
After 30 minutes of takes and retakes and failing to follow the producer's direction to sound more "like myself" and less "like a squirrel who's been shotgunning Red Bull," I realized I needed help. It was time for me to finally come out of the wings. It was time for an acting class.
I didn't want to take a traditional class, one where I'd have to emote and play characters and maybe even bust out an accent or two. (My husband claims my British accent makes him queasy.) I just needed something to help me loosen up a bit. So that's why, when I saw an ad for a Beginner's Improv comedy class, I knew that was the ticket.
I've been a big fan of improvisational comedy for years and have seen shows by famous troupes like Second City in Chicago and The Groundlings in L.A. (places where well-known comedians like John Belushi, Will Ferrell and Tina Fey got their start), and I regularly watched the TV show Who's Line Is It Anyway? Every time I saw improv comedy, the same nagging little thought would pop into my head: "Man, I wish I was brave enough to do that."
Which brings me to reason number two: I'm in my 40's. It's time to be f#*ing brave enough.
The first night of class, I slunk nervously into the funky Hideout Theater in downtown Austin, desperately hoping I wouldn't do something that'd wind up on Youtube the next morning. Remarkably, though, my nervousness all but disappeared within just a few minutes due to the fact that my teacher, Shana Merlin, has that rarest of gifts-contagious enthusiasm.
A trained actor with years of teaching and performing experience, Shana immediately put everyone at ease by leading us in a few fast, fun games to break the ice. And while the games seemed fairly innocuous, they were all actually intended to help us start building trust in one another. Trust is the cornerstone of improv. She then explained that, unlike traditional theater, improv doesn't use a script. Rather, the performers make up everything as they go along, usually based on audience suggestions, so everyone multitasks as writers, editors, casting agents and directors. That doesn't sound so hard, I remember thinking. After all, I'm a mother. I can change diapers, grill a burger, grout tile and yank a toddler off a ceiling fan with one hand, while vacuuming and playing Texas Hold 'Em with the other. All I do is multitask.
For the next 12 weeks, our class played various improv games to learn the proper tools, then finally started to act out scenes. And while it wasn't always easy and I didn't always conquer my shyness, I definitely made progress. I didn't cry, throw up or curl into the fetal position while screaming, "I am not an animal!" while on stage, anyway. In fact, after just a few weeks, I actually started to feel... confident. And I was doing things I'd never in a million years have thought I was capable of doing. One night, I played a scene as a school principal with cat mannerisms ("Tommy, your report card...gaak! Hairball!"), another night I was Didi, the tough, streetwise girl threatening the Chess Team. It was fun, it was creative, it was spontaneous, it was, well, freeing. For three hours each week, I wasn't a stressed out, suburban mother. I was whoever I decided to be.
Perhaps even more surprising than my new-found confidence was the fact that I found myself starting to use improv skills in my real life as a mom. Because if there's anything that's a constant improvisation, it's raising a family. Anyone who's ever pulled a screaming 2-year-old out of a public fountain could tell you that.
The one particular improv skill I found myself most drawn to was the "Power of Yes." In improv, it's important to always say, "Yes, and..." to keep the action going. For example, if you walk on stage and your scene partner says, "My, isn't it a lovely day on Mars!", you shouldn't respond with a "block" and say "Whaddya mean? This is Jersey, you moron." Instead, you might say something like, "Yes, the Red Planet is lovely today! Let's call the aliens over for a picnic!" Then you're on your way to a funny scene.
After learning about the power of yes, I began to realize how often I was using "blocks" in my day-to-day life. Sometimes I said "no" just because it was the easiest thing to do. Or I ignored my husband's suggestions to do a childcare thing his way. I began to see that the "power of no" was cheating me out of some really good things. So, one day when the boys came running up to me, loudly yelling that they were being chased by Darth Vader, I didn't immediately block them and say, "That's nice, guys, but Mommy's busy right now." Instead, I used the power of yes and accepted their offer by bellowing: "Then let's grab our light sabers, men!" For the next hour, the boys and I laughed, screamed and fought off the Imperial Empire. They couldn't have been more thrilled. And, except for a somewhat unfortunate light saber injury to my ear, neither could I.
Another improv skill I brought to my real life was the embrace of failure. In class, if we did something wrong or screwed up, rather than feeling ashamed, we put on a big smile, gleefully yelled "I failed!", then took a deep bow while everyone applauded. How awesome is that? Think about it: you accidentally send your client the wrong invoice, then have to face your irate boss, and instead of cowering down and apologizing, you insanely yell, "Woo-hoo, I FAILED, dude!" Yeah, OK, your boss probably wouldn't applaud so much as send you straight to Human Resources, but the point is, even if you don't say "I failed!" out loud, why not say it to yourself? Stop beating yourself up for all the little things that go wrong and instead, just admit the mistake and move on to the next. After all, there's always going to be another chance to prove yourself. Another chance to not fail.
But perhaps the best lesson I took away from improv was simply to be more spontaneous. To see the humor. To realize that life itself is an improvisation, and I shouldn't waste time worrying about everything and trying in vain to control it all.
Like recently, when I was at the mall, ready for a day of shopping. Ten minutes in, my son Jack decided he "CAN'T HOLD IT ANY MORE, MOMMY!" and let the pee fly in the Banana Republic accessories department. Sure, I could have completely freaked out and lost it, but instead, I improvised. I simply picked him up, threw his dirty clothes in a plastic bag, then walked out of the store, my head held high and my naked son wrapped in a newly purchased $25 t-shirt. (So he was not only dry, but stylish as well.)
My next Improv class starts in a few weeks. This time, we'll be performing in front of a live audience. Of course, I'm already scared at the thought of being on stage in front of people who aren't related to me. And my head is already full of questions, like "Will I be ready? Will I be funny? Will I at least be a better actor than Keanu?" But the thing is, there's no way to know the answers until I get on stage and find out. Until I say yes. And you know what? I think I will.