So, I finally did something that’s been on my bucket list for about ten years. I took an improv class!
I’ve always been fascinated by shows like Whose Line Is It Anyway? How do these people come up with hilarious songs, characters, and stories completely on the fly? I thought it would be so cool to try. There was just one little problem. The thought of doing it myself terrified me.
- What if someone threw out a topic and my mind went completely blank?
- What if I said something stupid?
- Or worse, something so boring that everyone just stared at me?
In corporate America, being put on the spot and having nothing to say isn’t exactly a career-enhancing move. I spent decades learning to be prepared, articulate, and competent. Voluntarily putting myself in situations where I might look foolish? No, thank you!
So improv stayed safely on my bucket list. For ten years. 🤪
What finally got me to sign up was an unexpected conversation about the book A Year to Live. If I had only one year left, would I really care about embarrassing myself in front of a bunch of strangers? Apparently not.
I found a drop-in class and paid for it five days in advance, knowing full well that if I waited until Thursday, I’d come up with 17 excellent reasons to stay home.
My First Improv Class (and My Invisible Scorecard)
Thursday evening, I showed up for my two-hour class. There were nine of us, including three complete beginners. We started with warm-up games involving movements, sounds, and increasingly complicated instructions. Within minutes, people were making mistakes, laughing, and trying again. It was surprisingly physical, too. I wore a long-sleeved shirt and ended up sweating buckets. Note to self: T-shirt next time.
But the real workout was happening inside my head. Every exercise demanded my full attention. If I started thinking about what to say next, I’d miss someone else’s cue. And whenever someone came up with something particularly funny or creative, my brain immediately went into comparison mode.
Oh no. That was good. What am I going to say? I have nothing! Suddenly, my internal performance review department had arrived, clipboard in hand.
- Was I creative enough? Funny enough?
- Was I the most boring person in the room?
Nobody was grading us. There was no promotion, bonus, or reputation at stake. Yet somehow, I’d brought my own invisible scorecard. And the more I worried about doing well, the harder it became to listen, respond, and have fun.
The Joy of Being a Hot Dog
Then we played a game in groups of three called the Tree Exercise. One person starts as a tree. Another becomes something related to the tree, perhaps a swing. The third person adds something else. Then two people leave, and the remaining character become the starting point for the next round.
Before long, we were pretending to be hot dogs, crying babies, and even a thong. Yes, a thong. I personally got to be a hot dog. And we were laughing our heads off.
Something shifted for me during that exercise. With only three people, I felt less exposed. We were all coming up with ridiculous ideas, some better than others, and nobody seemed to care. For a little while, I stopped trying so hard to be interesting. I just said whatever came to mind, and it was so much fun!
That experience left me wondering: What happens if I give myself permission to be completely ordinary? Not funny. Not clever. Not impressive. Just someone willing to show up and play.
Letting My Inner Critic Watch, Not Direct
I’ve been thinking about how much of my life I’ve spent trying to do things well. In corporate America, that mindset helped me succeed. But even though I’ve stepped outside that world in early retirement, some of those old habits came along with me.
The funny thing is, I noticed that same habit the very next day while shopping with my daughter Alexis. I caught myself mentally calculating and second-guessing purchases, turning what should have been a carefree afternoon into another series of decisions to get right. Remembering how much my judgments got in the way of enjoying improv, I decided to loosen my grip a little. And just like that, I felt more present with Alexis, more relaxed, and freer to enjoy our time together.
I’m not trying to get rid of my judgmental side. She’s human, and she’s been useful to me in many ways. But perhaps I can welcome her, let her sit in the audience, and stop handing her the microphone.
I went to improv hoping to conquer my fear of freezing in front of people. Instead, I discovered something I’m much more curious about: what might happen if I stopped trying so hard to get everything right and allowed myself to play?
I’m definitely going back. And next time, I’m wearing a T-shirt.
Lei
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