My 20s Have Been a Journey of Giving Myself Permission

The moment I turned 18, my first thought was “I literally have permission to do WHATEVER I WANT,” and I proceeded to back out of my parents’ driveway with the directions to Body Art Emporium memorized. No sooner had I reached the end of the street, I got a call from my mom screeching through the phone, “if you come back with a piercing or a tattoo, don’t come back at all!”

A nose piercing and three tattoos later, my mom hasn’t disowned me yet.

It has taken me years to realize that permission isn’t just about the legalities that come with poking holes in your body or branding yourself with inked needles. Permission is something we frequently look to others to give, but rarely think about the permissions we give ourselves in more abstract and obscure ways.

On the cusp of my 27^th birthday, I’ve come to realize that every year of my 20s represents a stake in the ground toward self-acceptance and giving myself the permission I never knew that I gave, but desperately needed at the time.

Permission to Dream

I am 19 going on 20. 

I’m heading to Chicago in the fall because I have this crazy idea that one day I’m going to be a comedy writer. Last year, I started my blog, My Life Is Ridiculous, and I really couldn’t have imagined the response that it got. I have people on campus I don’t even know telling me that they loved my latest post. I mean, it’s not like I’m a celebrity or anything, given that I don’t think 1,100 fans from a tiny liberal arts school in Indiana really boosts my notoriety in the grand scheme of things. But I’m hoping Chicago will help me get there.

I fell in love with the city the first time I visited—a weekend trip with my improv group that included shows, workshops, and no shortage of underage drinking in a hotel room crammed with seven wide-eyed college students, our entire lives ahead of us.

That trip was the first time I stepped foot in the iO Theater. There was a thick energy that hung in the air, and the floors and walls were vibrating with the magic I felt in that building. It was as if I had been speaking a different language my entire life and crossing the threshold into that sanctuary was the translation I had been looking for.

I promised myself after that trip that I would find my way back there. Somehow, someway. All roads would lead me back. Writing and performing wasn’t just something that I “did.” It was me. It is me. And now I’m finally on my way back to spend a semester exploring this crazy dream of mine.

Coming from a family of lawyers and entrepreneurs, it seems a bit frivolous. Probably impulsive and brash. Most definitely not lucrative. But it’s something that feels like it’s in my DNA.

I am 19 going on 20 and the possibilities are endless. All I have to do is just say yes.

Permission to Pursue

I am 20 going on 21. 

I’m about to start my senior year, and I’ve found my direction. I don’t want to be a lawyer or an entrepreneur or a sales associate at some shitty advertising firm in the Midwest. I want to be a writer. I want to be a performer. And I’m kind of mad at myself for just now opening this up for discussion or consideration. There’s a difference between dreaming and doing and I’m ready to come back down to earth. I’m ready to stop thinking that my dream is something off in the distance that I keep chasing and I am ready to tether myself to these aspirations and put down roots with them.

I proved to myself last year in Chicago that I am dedicated to this. And the people who succeed are the ones who never give up and never resort to Plan B. I don’t want a Plan B.

I am going to graduate school. And I am not going for anything universal or generally understood or even at all transferrable, because that would be an easy out. Fuck you, MBA. Fuck you, MFA. I am going for what I want, unapologetically. I am applying for a Master’s of Science in Television program at Boston University where I can study sitcom writing and video production and sketch writing and everything I have ever hedged my bets on. And if I don’t get accepted, then that’s my sign.

I know this isn’t going to be the easiest path. I’ve heard enough “starving artist” stories to tide me over for a lifetime. But I don’t want to wake up in Southern white suburbia as a 34-year old stay at home mom who once had a dream, but now consoles herself with Zumba and Xanax and can’t bear to watch her favorite sitcoms without sobbing into her glass of red wine.

I am 20 going on 21 and I’m not going to let fear stand in my way.

Permission to Be Independent

I am 21 going on 22. 

I’m packing up my life and heading to Boston to start graduate school. I’m moving almost 1,000 miles away from home. To a city I’ve only visited once. To a school where I know no one. To an overpriced studio apartment that I have all to myself. And I am electric right now.

This feels like the beginning of my life. This is my fresh start where I get to grow into whatever I’m in the process of becoming without judgment and without hesitation. This is where I get to find myself and let go of everything I allowed people to mold me into up until this point.

One of my faults is that I have always cared too much about what other people think or what other people say, and it has taken me this long to realize that those are the people who will forever be imprisoned by their own insecurities.

I am 21 going on 22 and this is just day one of who I’m going to be.

Permission to Be Loved

I am 22 going on 23. 

I think I may have met the guy I want to spend the rest of my life with. It sounds completely juvenile and reckless to say, considering we have only been dating for a little over a month now, but I feel like going through so much of what you don’t want in a relationship makes it so much easier to identify what you do want.

I think high school and most college relationships are destined to fail and are really stupid (and I just lost half of my readers there). The only thing that keeps them from crumbling for the most part is history and comfortability and the fear of having to start all over again. Brains are really fucked up in the way they remember things and analyze things when it comes to love.

I was in a terrible relationship. Like, any-one-of-the-Kardashian-women-and-their-significant-others-at-any-point-in-time terrible. We were toxic for one another, but we kept holding on because it was the only thing we knew. Why ruin a terrible thing when you could risk finding an equally terrible thing? I mean, staying in the current terrible thing, at least you know his brand of terrible. And clearly, that’s better than having to learn a new type of terrible, right?

I was really wounded and confused when I met Pat. I was jaded and ready to fend off another suitor who would most likely take a number and get in line with the other assholes I had dated.

I have never had someone text me “good morning beautiful” on almost a daily basis. I have never had someone call or text me first, regardless of who called or texted last. I have never had someone trust me during a night out with my girlfriends, not even thinking about texting me “WHO ARE YOU WITH” or “WHERE ARE YOU.” Where I am used to abrasiveness, he is calming. Where I am used to fear, he is reassuring. Where I am used to doubt, he is forthcoming. Walking on eggshells has turned into resting on cloud nine. And the idea of love that I had before is completely eviscerated.

I am so scared that this won’t work out. Or that I’ll fall back into unhealthy habits and ruin everything. But for now, it just really feels like what I need and something I can hold on to.

I am 22 going on 23 and I am allowing myself to fall in love, real love, for the first time.

Permission to Say No

I am 23 going on 24. 

A few months ago, I quit my first job out of graduate school. Four months into a three-year contract. My first career, over. Going into it, I felt so extremely accomplished. I had just finished a degree that cost me almost $100,000, and started my shiny new grown-up life making 40k as a writer and producer at a TV news station in Louisville, where the misery and bitterness and inflated egos of mediocre anchors palpably hung in the hallways. This is what being an adult was, surely.

This was my new life—being duped into working a shift I never agreed to that was never mentioned in my interview or in my contract, dodging sexist and inappropriate comments from my boss who never passed up an opportunity to remind me that I was hired because his boys club needed a female headcount, enduring verbal beatings and personal belittling almost nightly from an old, washed up, narcissistic anchor who was the face of the station and then being told by the newsroom director “that’s just how it is around here, so you may as well get used to it.”

I sobbed into my microwave meal every night while I sat alone in my office until 11pm. And each night, being lied to and taken advantage of felt more wrong than the night before. Tolerating blatant sexism and harassment for fear of speaking up felt more wrong than the night before. Accepting verbal abuse felt more wrong than the night before. And “so you may as well get used to it” felt like the nail in the coffin.

I filed paperwork for my resignation three months in to my employment, and after wading through a legal shitstorm, I was finally out of there after four months.

Even my family judged me. Telling me that no employer wants to hire someone who quits after four months. Telling me that I had ruined my career. Telling me that I’ll hate all jobs I have, and that I should just “deal with it.” My parents were disappointed in me. My sisters talked in whispers behind my back, assuming I just must be one of those people who can’t hold a job.

To be honest, I really didn’t care. Quitting this job was like coming up for air after being tied to a cinder block and thrown into a lake by a bunch of delusional fucks who think working in a DMA that barely made it into the top 50 in the country makes them Oprah Fucking Winfrey.

I am 23 going on 24 and I am so over “getting used to it.”

Permission to Grow

I am 24 going on 25. 

I have rebounded from my “first career” that everyone told me I would never come back from. I am working in corporate America for the first time, and I have to admit, it is pretty dope. I’m not technically in a field that I went to school for. So much for “fuck plan B,” amiright? 

Even though I’m not writing as much and only performing at a local bar for small crowds, I feel like I am here for a reason. I’m learning new skills and working for a FORTUNE 500 company, which is a goal I never set out to achieve, but I am so thankful for the opportunity. Going into my interview here, being completely transparent, I was definitely in a fake-it-til-you-make-it mode. Maybe I don’t have the amount of technical experience as other candidates, but I sure as hell have the aptitude and the appetite to excel at anything to make it look like I’m an expert.

Even though I find myself doing completely different work than I had intended, I am growing in ways that I know I need to but have been too proud to admit. I’m gaining technical skills that I never knew I would be so interested in. Social listening? I had never heard of it before this role and surprisingly, I have become passionate about the storytelling behind analytics.

I’m still in Louisville, which I never intended, but at least I’m making the most out of it while I’m here. I know that this experience is setting me up for something bigger. It has to be. I can only grow so much in this role and at this company before I’m reaching for more.

I am 24 going on 25 and I’m learning that even if I’m not doing what I love, there’s always a greater purpose to it.

Permission to Jump

I am 25 going on 26. 

I think about killing myself sometimes. Woah, I know. Not a great line out of the gate. But honestly, the only way I’m going to realize it’s an issue that needs to be addressed is if I actualize it. If I say it out loud. Just like everyone who has ever heard of Alcoholics Anonymous, “acceptance is the first step of acknowledging the problem.” So, yeah. I guess I can accept that some days I feel like I am worthless and I feel that I am living a life of monotony and complacency that just cycles over and over again like that terrible Christmas movie where Brink! repeats Christmas day until he appreciates what he has.

I just got married to someone who has proven himself not only to be the love of my life, but also capable of dealing with the unpredictability and emotional chaos that comes with loving someone who has depression. It breaks my heart when he asks me what’s wrong and there are no words to describe the tightness in my chest and the tears welling up in my eyes.

I’ve put off medication for as long as I can, because I want to convince myself that I am stronger than the circumstances around me. But I’m not. I have to take care of myself. I have to figure myself out.

On the outside, I have the perfect life. But on the inside, I feel like I have given up. I used to have dreams that I would fight for. I felt invincible knowing that my spirit was undeterred. Letting go is the only way to fight off the stagnancy.

I am 25 going on 26 and if I don’t go for it now, I never will.

Permission to Fly

I am 26 going on 27. 

I am living in Chicago, the first city to truly draw me in and tie a string to my heart. My job is to write for the largest food company in the United States. Every Wednesday, I walk the halls of the iO Theater as a student, halfway through the training program and dedicated to perfecting the art that I promised myself I would pursue.

Every door that I have knocked on this year has opened for me without hesitation. I have learned that I would rather regret taking a risk than face the consequences of inaction. I have learned that if I don’t believe in myself by now, I can’t convince anyone else to do it for me.

For every year in my 20s, I’ve added a notch on my belt of self-acceptance, and I don’t expect to stop giving myself permission where I have lacked confidence or direction.

I am 26 going on 27 and I have learned that every time you jump, you make the choice to let fear weigh you down or you let your hopes carry you.

Jump. Just Fucking Jump.

I think the breaking point of when I knew I needed a change came in September when I left a John Mulaney show in tears, crying to my husband that I didn’t even know why I existed. I figure that’s a euphemistic way of saying I spent the rest of the night curled into a ball under his arms, throwing suicide on the table like it was a plate of lukewarm leftovers that I would love to eat. If I got that hungry.

It was that night when I realized I needed to either jump and feel myself soar, or I would be left inching myself out to the edge, forced to watch myself plummet. For the previous few months, I had slipped into a spiral of a depression I hadn’t known before. I had become a vague outline of myself. Like someone I would stand next to in an elevator, her name on the tip of my tongue, but not caring enough to ask. Then we got off on separate floors.

My husband got us front row tickets to a John Mulaney show in Louisville. We both really enjoyed his comedy, and this was a valiant and so very thoughtful attempt to give me a night—just ONE night—that didn’t end with me sobbing.

I love stand-up comedy. I love listening. I love watching. I love famous, mainstream comedians. I love local, niche comedians. Most of all, I love performing. For as long as I can remember, I envisioned myself up on a stage, making people laugh, making people forget about the shitty parts of life. I had dreams of moving to a big city. Los Angeles, New York, Chicago. I'd make it big. 

I did stand-up for a bit, and told myself I would get back into it. I kept performing improv here and there, but nothing consistent. I wanted to start writing sketch comedy. Louisville has never been the city for that. But somehow, I ended up there. "Tomorrow. I’ll start writing something tomorrow."

The day of the show, I peeled myself out of bed, which had become increasingly harder to do each week. But I had decided that this would be my day to turn things around. I’m allowed to have one day that I don’t feel like I’m being swallowed whole. This was the day.

Aside from my love of all things comedy, I’m also notoriously known for my abnormally small bladder. You’d think I’m trying to pass a kidney stone on a daily basis if you kept tabs on my bathroom trips. Which I would be very interested in perusing, if anyone happens to have kept a ledger.

John was in the middle of his show, and I had been throwing my head back laughing the entire time. We even made eye contact several times, which is hard not to do when I could’ve literally reached up on stage and tied his shoelaces. He knew I was enjoying the show. I knew I was enjoying the show. Happiness had made its way back to my doorstep. This was the day.

Panic struck as I realized I guzzled not only my 22 oz. beer, but half of my husband’s during the show. I got up in what I thought was a super discreet and stealthy way, doing that awkward, courteous half-bend as I shimmied past my neighbors. As I made it to the aisle of the theatre, I heard, “DON’T YOU GET UP AND WALK AWAY WHILE I’M TALKING ABOUT MY WIFE.”

It took me a second to register that John Mulaney had just called me out in front of a crowd of 2,500. Not because I had analyzed what he said, but because I saw more than 4,000 eyes looking at me, pointing at me, and laughing at me. As he continued to ridicule me down the aisle, (“yeah, go on and get outta here,” “someone in the back make sure that door closes behind her”), I felt my chest constrict. I forgot where I was. I forgot that I needed to pee. As soon as I crossed the threshold into the lobby, I burst into tears. And as hot salt ran down my cheeks, that question that hung in the corner of my thoughts for the past few months pushed its way through and jumped the queue of all rational emotions and logic and self-awareness: “why do I even exist?”

I spent the rest of the show emotionally paralyzed, standing in the shadows of the back of the theatre. I don’t remember the last 30 minutes of the show. I do remember watching my husband, who had my phone and my wallet, stay in his seat until the theatre cleared, whipping his head around and scanning the space for any sign of me.

I even made the mistake of looking at John Mulaney’s Instagram post of Louisville, and scrolled through the dozens of comments, “so mad that girl never came back!” “that one girl never returned!” and even a sick burn from a 14-year old who, in my opinion, has no fucking business being at a John Mulaney show: “sadly that one girl never went back to her seat but she was hiding in the back for the rest of the show.” Well, @shaddie_shad_shad, I wish nothing but the best for you in your presumably mediocre high school football career, and I hope that someone starts a rumor about you having chlamydia, but mainly I also hope that you contract chlamydia.

A year ago, I would have brushed this off. A year ago, I would have laughed and spouted something tawdry and crass back to John Mulaney, making me the hero of the night. Giving me anonymous notoriety—“that girl who shot back at John Mulaney,” “the girl who got heckled and held her own.”

But that girl got off on a different floor.  

This whole time, I’m thinking to myself, what the fuck happened to me?

For the past couple of years, I lived a life that I didn’t entirely love, but one that I accepted. One that was a little bit better than ‘good enough.’ One where I felt comfortable, but didn’t feel exhilarated. One where I stood on the edge of a plateau and made camp, instead of climbing, and undoubtedly falling a few times, to reach the peak. I had a wonderful boyfriend turned fiancé, who became my husband, I had great friends, I had a cushy job in corporate America in my hometown, the friendly town of Louisville, KY. On the surface, I had everything. But sometimes the façade of having everything doesn’t let you off at the penthouse, and you end up riding it all the way back down to the ground floor.

I think this was the turning point because I’m no stranger to depression. But I am a stranger to giving up. I am a stranger to saying “I can’t and I won’t.” I am a stranger to complacency and lying down and not putting up a fight. I am a stranger to “tomorrow—I’ll start tomorrow.”

So I decided to jump.

And I’m feeling myself soar.

I’ve thought a lot about perspective and perception and change recently. But I’ve also thought a lot about fear. Fear is what held me back from jumping before. Fear was synonymous with comfort for me. Fear was ‘good enough.’ But eventually, fear of staying stagnant eclipsed the fear of never fulfilling the crazy dreams I’d imagined for my future.

I jumped, and I am fucking flying.

I fell in love with Chicago six years ago, and always dreamed of coming back. There were always excuses, and always empty promises and proposed timelines; “we’ll move once we get married,” “we’ll move after tax season,” “we’ll move, at some point.”

The timing couldn’t have been more terrible. Uprooting our life and relocating to a new city during the holidays. Gambling that I would love my job, still in corporate America—a job that serendipitously fell into my lap by nothing short of divine intervention. Asking my CPA husband to roll the dice before tax season that his firm would let him work remotely. Crossing our fingers that we could sell our house with such short notice.

In three weeks, we found an apartment in Chicago that we’re in love with. I love my new job, and I’m finally at a place where I’m seen as an expert in my field and my team couldn’t be more supportive.  My husband has a home office set up in our living room, where he can work in his sweatpants and watch Netflix during his lunch break. We received a full-price offer on our house after the very first viewing, and we plan to close any day now. I signed up for my first official improv course at a renowned theatre, and I’m pissed that it doesn’t start for another month. I am writing again. I am finally. Fucking. Writing. Again. And do you have any idea how much better sex is when you’re not worried about crying or having an emotional catastrophe every 10 minutes?

None of this would have happened if I hadn't jumped. I had no clue what would happen, but I jumped. I don’t know where you are in your life. I don’t know if you’re spreading your wings or if they’re clipped. But just know that you are not the only one, and there’s not just one option.

I don’t recognize that girl who stood in the back of the Louisville Palace during a John Mulaney show. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too focused on getting off on my own floor to ask. I don’t know whether I should thank John Mulaney, or hope that someone starts a rumor about him having chlamydia.

I am no longer an outline of who I want to be. I am in the process of creating who I want to be. Happiness made its way back to my doorstep. This is my day.

Improv: The Art of Gift Giving

It was the first week of speech team practice since the new school year had started.  I stood in the center of the journalism classroom after school, knobbly-kneed in my maroon plaid skirt and my wrinkled gray sweater.  I had never done this before, but I felt ready.  Our coach gave my partner and I the prompt, "a tourist in a foreign country."

As soon as my partner started speaking fluent Spanish, I froze, got angry, broke character, and said, "I can't even do this. I don't know Spanish. How am I even supposed to make a scene if I can't even understand her?"

And this will forever go down in my history as the first and the most cringe-inducing improv scene I have ever performed.

***

The first time I tried structured improv was by way of a bribe.  A complete cosmic accident, really, looking back on it.

I was almost 15 years old and a freshman in high school.  It was May, and in July, I had planned to go on a service trip.  I had been hassling a bunch of my teachers to pledge money for my trek across rural, shanty-town Kentucky, because my parents weren't going to let me off so easily like the other parents did and write a check for $600.

Most teachers were empathic, and gave a solid $20, no contest.  But Donna Patterson, my world civ teacher, she wasn't going to make this a one-sided deal.

"I'll give you $50," she said, "but on one condition."

As the youngest of three girls, I had become somewhat accustomed to compromise and negotiation.  She had my attention.

"You have to attend an informational meeting and workshop for the speech team.  Then you'll get your money."

Like any self-absorbed, asshole teenager, I agreed, not really planning to follow through.  Why would I want to be on a speech team?  Don't they just stand around and give speeches?  I'm pretty sure I revoked my public speaking rights when I was the morbid 5th grader who gave a 4H Speech on Lizzie Borden while all the other girls in my class were doing Michelle Kwan or Mia Hamm.  I'm actually surprised and a little concerned that that didn't raise any red flags or warrant a note home to my parents.  If you don't know who Lizzie Borden is, Google her.  That's cause for worry.

I must've had nothing better to do that afternoon, because assuredy, I went to that meeting, and by the time it was over, I had pledged my next three years of high school to the speech team.

Donna Patterson never gave me that $50.  In fact, she didn't even come back my sophomore year.  Just vanished.  No explanation.  Was she ever even real?  Was she my Ghost of Speech Team Yet to Come?  I may have been duped out of fifty bucks, but in reality, she gave me much more.

***

On improvisational principle, I love it when things come full circle.  There is something so satisfying about a story wrapping itself up so nicely, and pinching itself off with a pretty bow.  The AH-HA! moment, as they call it--when a scene ends on the perfect button, when you get that big laugh, when a punchline hits and the stage is swept.

Last night, I stood on stage with a complete stranger, and was given the prompt, "Mexico."  And as my partner started the scene speaking Spanish, it wasn't until then that I reflected on how far I had come, and how responsible improv has been for that growth.

The scene played out beautifully, lost in translation, as we purposefully confused 'dinero' with De Niro, and kept getting frustrated at what we were supposed to 'si'.  And we created an honest portrayal of what it's like to find common ground when you can't understand a goddamn thing someone else is saying.  And in those quick moments when we were thinking on our toes and grasping for truth in our humor, I had my AH-HA! moment.

***

I went to a tiny, liberal arts college in Indiana, 90% because after I visited, I learned that there was a campus improv group.  Why else would I subject myself to living in the middle of nowhere for four years, if it weren't for something I was beginning to become passionate about?

Auditions for Evil Petting Zoo were really exclusive--the only reason I caught wind of them was because my PA had the inside scoop, and he knew I was interested.  Auditions were a two-part process: the first night was a workshop to get to know the members and play a few improv games to prep for The Big Night.  The second part was The Big Night: sweat-inducing, exhilarating, and a complete blur.  I vaguely remember playing 3-line scene, and finishing a round by getting on my knees and saying, "forgive me father, for I have sinned," which turned out to be a great subtle blow-job/priest joke and got a big laugh.  Other than that, I can't even tell you what day it was or who else came to try out.

After auditions, I texted both of my parents, letting them know how nervous I was, and how there were so many other people that could've been better than me.

Just after midnight, I received that e-mail, reassuring me that I was good enough, and welcoming me to the group.

***

Improv is something seemingly easy, but can't be taught with words.  It's something that you feel inside of you when the moment is right.  It's intuition.  It's gut.  It's truth.  One of my first teachings on improv was the book 'Truth in Comedy.'  As a fledgling member of Evil Petting Zoo, we were passed down copies of the book as a sort of initiation.  This is where my improv journey would truly begin.  Even though I spent a few years flirting with improv on my high school speech team, I had only scraped the surface in terms of the true cogs behind the art.

Anyone who has ever studied improv knows that the first principle is "Yes, and..."  Even the moguls like Tina and Amy will tell you that if improv were a religion, Yes, And would be ruler of all.  Yes, and is a way to accept everything.  The good, the bad, the really confusing and the unexplainable.  No idea is a bad idea, and if it's thrown to you, you catch it and you run like hell.  It is a way to be open to all options, even if you have no idea where they will take you.

***

My junior year of college, I decided it was time to pay tribute to the improv gods, and make the pilgrimage to Chicago; the birthplace of improv. With a passionate personal essay and sterling letters of recommendation, I got an interview at the iO--one of the first interviews they did outside of regular performers who interned for free classes.  I vividly remember Mike Click, the right hand man at the iO, bringing a dog and a jar of peanut butter to my interview, asking if I was allergic to dogs or peanut butter.  After that initial screening process, he told me I could start next week.

I worked under Charna Halpern, one of the writers of 'Truth in Comedy.'  It took all I could to keep it together when she was in the office.  I bought her dogs sausage patties once a week from the Salt and Pepper Diner downstairs, and I'm still not convinced she knew my name.  I walked the same halls that Del Close--the father of improv--walked.  I passed framed pictures of every Improv Great there ever was--Tina and Amy (obviously), Rachel Dratch, Vanessa Bayer, Seth Meyers, Mike Myers, Horatio Sanz, Neil Flynn, Chris Farley.  Every time I entered that building, with the sickeningly-sweet smell of bleach, commercial soap and sweat, I knew it was where I wanted to be.

***

One of the greatest lessons I have learned from improv is taking the more interesting choice.  If we stay with what we know, we can never experience growth.  If we close ourselves off, we can never see what potential we truly have.  Exploring all aspects of a scene is a necessity for improv.  Exploring all aspects of life is what makes us human and what makes us interesting.

Improv is a branch of metaphysics--what is real, right now?  What is in front of you?  How can you make this proposed world better?  Another core principle of improv is the act of gift-giving: what can you give to your partner or your group that will better the whole?  It's not about cutting someone down to get the cheap laughs.  It's about creating a living, breathing scene where people can walk in and walk out and leave a lasting impact.  Improv is about making others look good at the benefit of your own group.  It is not about walking out of a scene when you feel uncomfortable, getting angry because you can't think of an innovative path, or breaking character when you think the scene has gone too far.  It is about groupmind and being on the same page without even realizing it.  It is about taking care of others in order to take care of yourself.

The best times of my life have been times inundated with improv.  It is a time to let go of everything you know that is real and breathe life into any alternate universe that you desire.  That moment on stage, when the lights are on you and your group, and no one else matters.  That moment when you can leave all of your true worries behind and play someone else for a change.

You are whoever you want to be, for as long as you want, in any world you create.

***

I have been steadily involved in improv for about 10 years now, and the change I have seen in myself is astonishing.  I am more selfless, but I am more self-aware. I am more grounded, but I have more dreams.  Improv has taught me that whatever I am dealt, there is always a way to deal with it--even if I don't speak fluent Spanish.

Improv was a gift, serendipitously bestowed upon me; it was something I never knew I could be so passionate about, but something that has kept me seeking higher ground.

I love performing, but better yet, I love teaching people to perform.  I love teaching people this art, because it's only fair to give back the gift that was given to me by so many people.

Last night, I hosted an improv workshop with dear friends who have had the same passion for improv as I have had.  We were given the gift of improv that is only acceptable to be passed on to others, in hope that they will find the same passion.  In hope that they will find the same comfort and the same freedom.  In hope that it will not take a $50 bribe to convince someone that they can captivate an audience, but convince them to believe in their own talents.  It is a selfish thing to keep talent to yourself, that is why improv is the gift that keeps on giving.  That is why improv is the gift that I keep giving.

The Disturbing Mass Appeal of Donald Trump

Before you make any assumptions, please, let me stop you right there.

No, I, personally, do not find Donald Trump appealing, even disturbingly so, and no, I would never contribute to lessening the value of our society by ever putting him in any position of power in our government.

But as a former student of television and digital media, I'll give him a fucking round of applause.

I vividly remember the Bush/Kerry election in 2004.  I was in 8th grade, attending a private school in Louisville, KY.  If that isn't a big enough giveaway, my parents were both Republican, as were most of the parents of the kids I went to school with, which was apparent when it came time to vote in class a couple months before the election.  Our social studies teacher, Mrs. Combs, had each of us write who we would vote for on a slip of paper.  After everyone took a few intrusive peeks at the surrounding ballots, we dropped them in the box at the front of the room.  Mrs. Combs tallied the votes, and after she told us that the vote was overwhelmingly Bush, she asked us why.

What did she mean, why?  Just because.  It's some stupid, fake class election.  Why did she care, why? Can I get back to passing notes now?

But why did we vote the way we did that day?  Because it was how our parents would have voted? Because it was how our friends had voted?  She asked us what we knew about the candidates, if we knew anything at all.  And we all glanced around the room at each other in silence, like most awkward, fledgling teenagers do.  That very moment was the spark that encouraged me to start following politics.

At that point, Facebook wasn't public, and Twitter was seemingly light-years away.  You may have had a few friends on MySpace or blogged about your feelings on your private Xanga account.  If you had a phone with a camera you were lucky, and the only websites that even crossed your mind on a daily basis were AOL and Ebaum's World.

My parents still received the local newspaper and religiously watched FOX News--live, because DVR was black magic back then.  Television was where I got my news.  There was no TMZ, no Mic.com, no Onion.  The debates were long and tiresome for my teenage brain, but the day after, they would always recap the talking points on morning shows and websites like CNN, MSN or Yahoo.  Just dry-cut, bare bones, let's-talk-about-the-issues-but-also-safely-mud-sling-a-bit politics. All of the commentary was mostly sterile, with a few jabs here and there, but the conversation remained political, not personal--the way election coverage should be handled. 

Pop culture was a pretty separate entity, altogether.  Presidential candidates were presidential candidates, not celebrities--you either loved them or hated them for their policies, their voting history, or because of a predisposed inclination to a certain affiliation.  You never saw articles or videos or memes (it's 2004--what's a meme?) slamming a potential first lady about her looks or leaked iPhone photos of the incumbent devouring a Big Mac in between caucuses.  Back then, the only place you could've seen George H. Dubya toss his cookies right next to the Japanese Prime Minister was on a rogue episode of VH1's "I Love the 90's." Now, it even has a Wikipedia page dedicated to it.

Be completely honest with yourself.  If I were to ask you which you would Google faster, "George H. W. Bush's foreign policy" or "George H. W. Bush pukes and then passes out at the dinner table in front of over 100 diplomats," which one would you choose?

Don't be ashamed!  I picked the puke story, too!  But the thing is, I also know about his foreign policy because I made it a point to educate myself, even if I was still in diapers when he was vying for the oval office, because history will always repeat itself, whether you accept it with open arms or recalcitrantly tell all of your Facebook friends how FUCKING PISSED YOU ARE AND THAT YOU'RE MOVING TO CANADA.

Enter Donald Trump.

Trump is using this super sneaky and super smart tactic to his advantage. Because he knows how connected we are in this digital age.  He knows that maybe some people know just a little bit about him politically, or maybe they know nothing at all about him politically, and people might be inclined to peruse his policies, but it's guaranteed that they will always Google and Share and Retweet his puke on the Prime Minister moments.

And psychologically, this directly relates to some weird, fucked up escapism principle we have to not be satisfied with the mundane lives we live.  This is why we read fiction (does anyone read books anymore, show of hands?).  This is why we watch TV.  This is why we share viral articles or videos that are outrageous or hilarious or heartbreaking.  We have this desire to constantly experience extreme emotion, as long as we're not the ones directly facing the consequences or painful truths.  Because we have access to a 24-hour feed of whatever we want, we have become so desensitized to everything.  The only thing that shocks us and catches our attention are the extremes.

Last year, Nielsen reportedly ranked over 1,400 TV shows, which FX CEO deemed as "too much TV."  And he's absolutely fucking right.  Watching 'television' is such a loose term these days, because there are so many OTT streaming services that make our escapism extremely portable and constantly at our fingertips.  We spend over five and a half hours viewing video content per day.  We are checking our social media accounts on our phone 17+ times. And Donald Trump is capitalizing on his clout every single time you watch or share a video of him reciting some imbecilic tirade about how incompetent he thinks women are or how big of a "pussy" he thinks Ted Cruz is or how much he loves the Bible, but can't stop misquoting it, religiously.  See the irony there?

I studied sitcoms in graduate school, and the most fun I had was creating hateable, outlandish characters for sitcoms. The quintessential character that everyone loves to hate.  Those characters are so fun to write for, because they are never held accountable for anything that comes out of their mouths, and for that reason, they quickly become the series favorites.  They always play the antagonists and they're always rotten to the core--no redeemable qualities to be seen, whatsoever--but if that character was removed from the show, no one would watch.  It would be a show about people getting along peacefully and living their lives with a few conflicts here and there, but ultimately, there would be no story.

Everyone lives vicariously through the antagonist.  They say things and do things we only wish we could say and do to our 'fill-in-the-blank': shitty boss, messy roommate, cheating partner, lousy friend, nosy parents.  The one-liners are pure gold, and we think to ourselves, "oh my gosh, that's so funny, I want to say that to someone, because that's exactly how I feel!"  But the thing is, we are so inundated with television as the norm that we accept it as how we actually should be living our lives--as antagonists.  Our digital boundaries are so blurred with the introduction of continuous access to media and "reality" TV drama, that we can't separate what is acceptable to happen on Bravo's back lot, from what is never acceptable in our own realities.

Donald Trump is no stranger to our television industry.  Since 2004, he has been one of the main components of "The Apprentice," and "The Celebrity Apprentice."  He knows how to work cameras, especially in the reality TV business.  He knows that the biggest media outlets look for the biggest shock factors, and he has no shame in putting on a horrific persona to ensure that he has the most talked about political platform and most buzzed about social stories--because he knows those are the only things we will share.  We have to ask ourselves what kind of society are we heading toward when almost half of an entire political party supports a presidential candidate because he "seems not to give a fuck," and declares he will "bomb the shit out of ISIS," instead of outlining a true plan for foreign and domestic terrorism.  He loves to recklessly insult people, and uses cruel humor to 'relate' to his supporters, as if he thinks he's a stand-up on an HBO special, not a presidential candidate.  And the sad thing is, people actually buy into this and stand behind it.  We are becoming desensitized to reality and opting for a scripted life with someone who 'tells it like it is,' instead of really looking into what it takes to run the most powerful country in the world.  And it's scary.

In 10 or so years, when your children are participating in a class election, and their teacher asks them, "why did you vote the way you did?" what will you have to say? Because it was how their parents or their friends had voted?  Because it was what Facebook or Twitter or any other social media site told them to do?  Because it was what some undigestible, fictional television villain with hilariously crude and inappropriate witticisms inspired them to do? Or will it be because they used technology to their advantage and looked beyond the viral videos and reality TV and perceived safety net of escapism in order to separate our on-screen indulgences from our perfectly mediocre realities?

Donald Trump is the antagonist in this season of America.  And if we elect him, sure, we have a story, and we'll have fodder for season after season.  But if we do everything in our power to make sure that he doesn't get within miles of the White House, we can all live peacefully, which is a story with a happier ending.

SNEAK PEEK #1--How To Handle Heartache

Our tumultuous love story began in Mrs. Underwood’s 4^th grade class.  By nature, I am a go-getter and an avid planner, and this was no exception when it came to finding my soulmate before all the good ones were taken.  I meticulously browsed through the school yearbook, briefly pausing over any of my prospects and heart-circling their pictures with a metallic pink gel pen.  I only focused on my fellow 4^th graders as potential suitors—I didn’t want to risk being known as the hussy who dated up, and I definitely refused to be the desperate girl who dated down—so options were a little limited. 

At the time, I probably would’ve ranked myself as a 7, easily, on the Hot R Not scale.  I hung out with the self-proclaimed popular group and I was the rising captain to the Jr. Quick Recall team.  Almost every morning, I would steal my dad’s Jhirmack hairspray that he used on his comb over to slick back my bangs into a smooth, glossy ponytail.  I never left the house without my rainbow choker that I won at a skating party, because skating parties and chokers were definitely elementary school status symbols.  I rolled my uniform skirt and wore my socks super low, despite the fact that I was well aware of our No Ankles Left Uncovered policy.  My white Oxford, while second-hand and ill-fitting, was always pristine.  I made sure not to smile a lot, because smiling was for dweebs.  Or so I told my orthodontically-challenged, nine-year old self.  I was hot. 

In retrospect, I was a dead ringer for a shorter, red-headed troll version of Macaulay Culkin.  I was probably a 3.7, max, on the scale.  Maybe even as high as a 4 on days I ditched the Don Corleone look and opted to hold my bangs back with butterfly clips.  I had pasty little nugget legs that only looked pastier and nuggetier with my thigh-high hem line and no-show Hanes.  My parents had three girls, none of whom would ever grow past 5’4” and 120 pounds into their adult lives.  Being the youngest, hand-me-downs were a quick fix to everything, and “you’ll grow into it” was my parents’ mantra.  I still support my stance that skating parties and chokers are status symbols.

Struggles of a Right-Brained Creative Stuck at a Desk Job

Desk jobs suck for everyone, I would imagine.  But I would assume even more so for every single person who sat through parent-teacher conferences every year with the same complaint: “she’s very smart, she just can’t seem to keep her damn mouth shut and stay in her seat” (I mean, I’m sure it was a bit more sugary than that, but I can’t help the way my mind decides to remember things). 

You need to have so many different things going on at once to get anything done.
It doesn’t matter how backwards that logic sounds.  If there are not dozens of things circling around you at once, you don’t know how to function.  You think in fragments.  You juggle projects like a pro because multi-tasking is how you were built to operate.  Keeping the stimulus changing by hopping from project to project helps keep what little attention span you have from becoming completely shot.  While everyone else gets things done in a linear process that sounds more torturous than water-boarding, you’re over here with a little bitta this and a little bitta that, checking e-mail, snooping on clients, entering orders.  You’re like Emeril Lagasse of your Google Chrome tabs—BAM!  Oh, this blog post looks interesting—I’ve never thought about my risk for pre-eclampsia before.  And then a few clicks later and you’re annoying the shit out of everyone with your newfound knowledge of potential pregnancy complications before you go back to what you’re actually supposed to be doing.  No matter how painstakingly mundane your job is, you manage to get it done, even if you take a roundabout way to finish it.

You literally have no idea where the last hour just went.
You blink, and all of the sudden, it’s 9:04am and you have a few papers carelessly strewn about your desk—papers that you assume you have been working on?  You look up at your computer screen and see that you’ve gotten through quite a bit of work but have no recollection of doing it, and then you fear that in all the e-mails you don’t remembering sending, you’ve just typed “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over and over again.  What is wrong with you?  How could you have just spent the last hour daydreaming about what you’re going to write about tonight and which hobby you’re going to pick up next—oh, soap making sounds fun!—and why the countless companies with creative openings haven’t come begging you to work for them after you’ve spammed them with resumes and cover letters and haikus about your professional prowess?  You spend so much of your time thinking about things that are more exciting than your desk job—like the atomic make-up of cardboard and what packing peanuts taste like and the entomology blow flies (something you’ve actually looked into when you had your “well maybe I’ll be a forensic scientist” thought)—that you completely forget that you’re stuck at your desk job.

As soon as you get back on task you forget what you were

You’re more interested in your co-workers’ lives than your work.
You linger in the kitchen while everyone grabs their morning cup of coffee.  You perk your ears to listen to the office hap.  Oh, Jenny had a falling out with her maid of honor?  You’ll have to go chat with her later and give her your guide to best friend break ups.  Chet has a rash on his foot that he thinks might be MRSA?  You might need to take a look, since you’re basically the Google Guru and WebMD personified…and then make sure to wash your hands. Thoroughly.  You plan your day around when you’re going to talk to each of them and even make cue cards in your mind about the points you want to make, just like the speech you made in 7^th grade when you ran for middle school Spirit Commissioner.  You are so invested in the emotions of others, and nothing makes you happier than when you get to offer insight and build relationships.  To you, company culture isn’t about making numbers and then going home and forgetting about everyone you spend the day with.  It’s about making connections with people and breaking down those Eggshell-hued cubicle walls.  You get pegged as the flake who slacks off and socializes too much, and you might have a reputation as the Office Gossip, but how are you supposed to get any work done when other people have interesting stories that you’re way too eager to overanalyze in your free time?

Your desk is a disaster.
People give you that look when you tell them, “oh, just put it on my desk,” as if you’re saying, “why don’t you just burn it and forget it ever existed?”  Surprisingly though, you know where everything is.  That coffee-stained pile over there?  Orders waiting on confirmation.  That stack of files using Amy Poehler’s Yes, Please as a paperweight?  Vendor profiles.  The crumpled mountain of Post-Its engulfing your phone?  All of your bubble-lettered doodles you scribbled down while you were intently listening to a very important conference call.  There is definitely a method to your mess, and if anyone were to give your cubicle an organizational makeover, you’d be lost.  No one understands how you get any work done (and most people doubt that you even do your work), but for you, there’s an art in the chaos of everything.  Your desk reflects the billions of ideas you have bouncing from synapse to synapse, dripping with raw, creative energy.  To organize that and try to make sense of it all would almost be a crime.

You take your breaks very seriously.
Sitting at a desk and staring at a computer screen for 8 hours of the day leaves you feeling more like a hostage than a productive member of your company.  Your Spotify is blaring too loudly in your headphones and the guy who sits behind you pokes his eyes over his prison cell to see you lassoing your arms above your head while dancing to Whitney Houston.  This is your “dance break” that you take religiously at 10:42 every morning.  It falls directly between “second water break” at 10:28am and “go look in the fridge to see what everyone else brought for lunch break” at 11:17.  They’re marked in your Outlook calendar, and once you’ve made a contract with Microsoft, it’s kind of unbreakable.  Most people in the office probably think you have a perpetual UTI or chronic IBS, given how many “I’m just going to run to the bathroom really quickly” excuses you give when you leave your desk.  Being whispered about as the Office Incontinent is better than risking your skin fusing to your cheap Staples chair that doesn’t even lean back and isn’t even fast enough for office races.

You use your lunch break as your passion hour.
While everyone else counts down the minutes until lunch because they’re dying to get out of the office and decompress, you’re watching the clock because it’s the hour that you devote to the hardest work of the day—your passion projects.  (First of all, I hate the phrase “passion projects,” because it sounds like it was coined by a motivational speaker trying to sell an overpriced self-help book.  But I feel in this sense, it’s the only phrase that works.)  Your lunch hour is when your brain ignites, and you think of the endless potential for this hour to propel you closer to your dream.  You write, you design, you doodle, you watch tutorials, you read, you plan, you learn something new, you Google (or Bing, I don’t discriminate) until your fingers cannot Google (or Bing, and while we’re at it, Yahoo, as well) anymore.  Doing what you love re-energizes you more than any broth bowl from Panera or Kung Pao chicken from the questionable Chinese place up the street.  You’re content with eating last night’s leftovers and possibilities for lunch.  Leftovers and possibilities.  The lunch of champions.  This hour is what gets you through the day.  This small drop in your metaphorical creative pond is where the magic begins, and you end up being kind of grateful that your desk job sucks, because without it, you wouldn’t be so motivated to sharpen your skills in order to find greener, more creative pastures.

This is for You. All of You

I had an epiphany while eating lunch in the Kroger parking lot today.  Let’s not dwell on the fact that I’m pathetic enough to eat lunch alone in my car.  There are more important things here.  Focus. 

I popped off the top of my Baconator fries I had just ordered from Wendy’s, and opened the cover of Yes Please from Kelli, a girl in my office who has decided to do a book swap with me.  I realize it’s basically a mortal sin that I haven’t read it twice already, but life gets in the way.

I was halfway through the preface, licking processed cheese goop and bacon grease off my finger, when I felt something inside me swell (no, this is not going to turn into some weird 50 Shades of Gray shit.  Just let me be flowery here).  Amy writes,

“You just dig in and you write it.  You use your body.  You lean over the computer and stretch and pace.  You write and then you cook something and then write some more.  You put your hand on your heart and feel it beating and decide if what you wrote feels true.  You do it because the doing of it is the thing.  The doing is the thing.  The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.  That is what I know.  Writing the book is about writing the book.”

Writing is the thing.  Writing is the thing that I’ve been writing about and writing is the thing that I’ve been talking about and writing is the thing that keeps me up at night because I never know when I’m actually going to just fucking write.  And after reading this preface, it’s like all the clouded dreams and hopes and “I wish”s have become lucid.  Stop complaining about not having enough time to write.  Stop writing something and letting your brain get in the way, just to erase it and tamp down every seemingly ludicrous idea.  Stop making excuses.  Stop worrying, “will anyone read it?”  Just. Fucking. Write.

So that’s what I’ve decided I’m going to do.  Something I’ve been promising myself and something I’ve been talking about and something I’ve been putting off until “the right time,” missing so many other right times that could’ve been writing times.

I’m going to write a book. 

And I guess since it’s out there now, I can’t take it back.  And YOU, the one reading this. YOU have dragged yourself into this.  You have, whether by accident or completely on purpose, made yourself someone to hold me accountable.  Whether you give a shit about my writing or not (if not, you can just heckle me if I don’t finish the book. I’ll deserve it for making such a bold statement and then not following through), you have become part of this process.  But I can’t let you do that without thanking you first.

Thank you.  

To everyone who keeps up or has kept up with my writing, despite many hiatuses, frequent questionable posts and undoubtedly, sometimes failure to impress. 

To people who have written me personal messages telling me that my writing has impacted them or impacted someone else they know.  Because that’s my aim.  I write to relate.  Not to be superior or demand an audience.  I write because goddamnit, there’s bound to be someone else out there who has fucked up in the ways that I have and just needs someone to say “PREEEACH.” (I apologize for using that.  I only use slang ironically.  Most of the time.)

To people who have liked and commented and shared and Tweeted and Tumblred and Whateverelsed my posts.  Your support and motivation is greater to me than you’ll ever know.  Like, I don’t think you have any idea how many times I refresh Facebook and freak out about how many people have seen it and shared it.

To the people who have been there from day one.  When I was 19 years old and decided to start some idiotic, immature blog about ridiculous and serendipitous things that happened to me.  Looking back at some of the things I wrote, I want to cringe and hide and get into a bar fight with my former self for being so, well, ridiculous.  Between switching blog names and taking long, indefinite breaks, you still read what I write.  And that’s incredible to me.  There’s too many of you to even name.  Just know that I know who you are, and I appreciate everything.

To my ex-boyfriends and past frenemies who have supplied me with endless fodder over the years.  Shout out to you.  Didn’t anyone ever warn you not to clash swords with a writer?

To my high school English teachers Kelly Kirwan and Diane Darst, who both taught me there shouldn’t be any shame in writing something if it’s honest and beautiful.  Who constantly encouraged me to write past formulaic academia and let me find my own voice.

To my high school speech coaches Daniel Hamm, Woody Zorn, Jenn Watson, Bill Thompson, and Jeff Mangum, who all embraced (and put up) with my inappropriate humor and pushed me to find the persona that I put into almost all of the essays I write.

To my college professors Bill Bettler, Kathy Barbour and Kay Stokes who let me grow into myself as a writer and saw my potential to do something with it (and didn’t mind having a drink or two with me after graduation).

To Laurie Notaro, who was my first serious writing influence.  The first person who actually made me laugh out loud while I was reading, and made me say to myself “that’s what I want to do.” (I realize Laurie Notaro will probably never read this, but thanks, homegirl.  Without you, I would be hesitant about accepting my inner Idiot Girl).

To all of my close friends who have the privilege (burden?) of talking to me on a daily basis, and who make this interesting life possible.  Your friendship has been invaluable to me.  But you already know that.

To my parents, obviously, for having me.  But on a serious note, you’ve put up with a lot of shit.  I mean, a lot.  Like, day after-eating-Chinese-food shit.  And you’ve supported me in every single move I’ve made (except for all the times I got tattoos, which I’ll forgive you for).

To my sweet, patient Pat who has had to and will have to put up with my neuroticism long into the future.  For you, I am most thankful, because I couldn’t imagine what you have to endure.

Sorry for the Oscar speech.  It seems like I’m getting ahead of myself.  Now I’ll look like a HUUUUUUGE ninny if I don’t write this book.  But I just wanted to lay all of my “thank you”s out there in advance, because honestly, without a lot of the help and support and encouragement I’ve had,  I wouldn’t have had the courage or motivation to do any of this.  So I mean it.  Thank you.

With that being said, to focus on writing this thing, I will be uploading on here a little less regularly, and the articles won’t be of much weight or very personal (think BuzzFeed lists or things of the like—maybe a few funny poems or quote lists).

I will also be deactivating my personal Facebook account to put more time toward writing—but never fear!  I will be creating a Kind Of An Adult, But Not Really page so you can keep up with any updates, send messages, all that jazz (or I could create the page and absolutely no one could “Like” it, that’d be totally cool, too).

Like Amy said, I’m off to do the thing.  But I had to say ‘thank you’ first.