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.