I tried 1t so you didn't have to: Improv

>» Yes and... can J leave?

Isabelle Orr
Entertainment Editor

 

Son people move through life with the
ease and grace of a gazelle, or Ariana
Grande. You can tell who these people

are because when faced with the most
stressful situation or tough decision they
are seemingly unflappable or, even more
enviable, are able to laugh it off.

Two of these people attend Blind
Tiger, the house improv team from Little
Mountain Gallery. They have an air of self-
assurance that I, even after two vodka sodas
and a Headspace-guided meditation, can
never achieve. They are content with saying
only what needs to be said and do so while
wearing oversized jackets or wacky hats in
a cool, nonchalant way.

One of them sat me down one day. I
had just come back from an EDM music
festival; my brain was as soft and malleable
asa boiled egg.

“Isabelle,” he said. “I can tell you're
unhappy.”

I was indeed unhappy. I had moved
to the Big City after finishing my degree to
really Make It, but after a year in Vancouver

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Isabelle Orr
Entertainment Editor

had really only learned which alleys were
okay to pee in and which were no-goes.

“Isabelle,” he said. “I think you should
try an improv class.”

Like anyone who was fat as a teenager,
I was no stranger to sketch comedy. I had
watched only MADvwv and SNL from the
years 2007 to2017. But I had never really
figured out what improv was, besides
people wearing canvas sneakers and having
alternative hairstyles.

“Isabelle,” he said. “If you take the
class, you can come to a party I’m throwing
that night.”

I decided to attend the class.

As soon as I left my house that Friday
night it began to rain, but to appear cool
and stylish I refused to double back for
a coat or umbrella. I squished into Little
Mountain in sodden leather mules.

I assumed I could watch everyone
from the corner, perhaps from a large stool
or behind a podium. This was not so.

“Please form a circle,” the instructor
said. There was no escape. For the first
exercise we were to make eye contact with
another student, then either offer or accept
a “bowl of spaghetti,” with an Italian accent

 

Tam so hungry, all the time

I eat pictures of your boyfriends and girlfriends

I gobble up ladies’ trips to Vegas

Albums of photos, swiped fast onto my tongue
#wokeuplikethis tastes better in the morning
Ditto #cheatday, #instagood, #instaselfie

I drink fat tummy tea and eat Isagenix chocolateswhile I

look at pictures of your cousins

Wedding season is like cotton candy

Sometimes the only thing that fills me is pictures of Kim

Kardashian

Tanned, crispy belly

I pop Saint and North into my mouth like donut holes

Binge-eating pictures of my exes and their new partners

(I throw these up after)
My stomach distended, jaw aching

Full of the self-hate that comes only from overeating

But Iam so hungry, all the time.

that bordered on culturally insensitive.
Every time the bow] was offered to me, I
froze. Accents were decidedly outside of my
jurisdiction.

“Come on,’ the other students gushed.
“Tt’s fun! Just try it!”

But I couldn't think of anything I'd
rather do less, save jumping into traffic, or
going to Fortune Sound Club on a Friday
night. I avoided all eye contact, which
worked for about a minute.

“Everyone should be participating,” the
instructor said warningly.

We quickly moved into the next
exercise, where a group of two was to act
out a scene until the instructor called,
“Freeze!” The next actor would then jump
in. I shrank into a comer, trying to swallow
my own tongue.

“Everyone should participate!”

Each actor worked their magic, pulling
jokes and situations seemingly out of
midair. I felt like I was walking the plank,
albeit in stylish leather mules. Finally, it
was my turn.

What happened next was an odd
mixture of blacking out and watching
myself from the corner of the room. I

remember my voice somehow rising in
pitch yet becoming quieter in volume until
it was something akin to a dog whistle.

When I came to, I was at the party.

As I started on my lonely journey towards
crying and puking in a bush outside, I
noticed people from the improv class
filtering in. I braced for the onslaught of
snide remarks that I would have given
myself if I were in their ill-fitting canvas
shoes. But no remarks came. Instead

I was congratulated and praised for
accomplishing my first class. There was
no negativity because the class, and my
anxiety about my performance, didn’t really
matter. That, I supposed, was the key to
improv: Saying yes and moving forward to
the next scene.

When I want to torture myself, I
think about that improv class. There is
something to be said for people who are
able to throw caution to the wind and risk
making a fool of themselves, and I applaud
those individuals. Maybe they have a sense
of humour | wasn’t innately born with and
will never have. But one thing I do have?
These sick leather mules. Seriously, they’re
the best.

Ooh! Beautiful!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

 

Comics by Rella