Sorry I'm Late, I Didn't Want to Come

by Jessica Pan

  “And isn’t it true that every time a Tinder date meets you, he says . . .” I begin.

  I stick my hand in my pocket.

  “TAXI!” I read off the paper.

  Eniko and I both burst out laughing. So do our classmates.

  And the feeling comes over me suddenly, sharply.

  Oh no.

  My vigor for life appalls me.

  I am shocked to realize that I . . . I love improv. And not just a little bit. I am a complete convert. I’ve become “one of them.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t bound out the door to my apartment singing show tunes and skipping into class announcing, “JESSY PAN PAN IS HERE FOR THE IMPROV PARTY!” before banging a gong.

  But I want to.

  Sometimes I still struggled getting myself to class because the idea of being “on” for three hours with fourteen other people always made me feel tired before I’d even arrived. But after every single night with that group, I left feeling giddy. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops, to nudge sad-looking strangers on the Tube and whisper, “You should try improv!”

  Psychologists say that improv classes can help alleviate social anxiety and stress—the exercises encourage you to think quickly on your feet, speak in front of others, and become less obsessed with perfectionism. There’s even an improv for anxiety class at the famous Second City comedy club in Chicago.

  It makes so much sense to me because spending a few hours a week in a safe space made the entire world seem kinder and more manageable. Mistakes were so easily forgiven—no one ever seemed to get annoyed or mad when I froze. As long as I stopped giving myself gonorrhea to try to move every scene forward, no one seemed to mind.

  Improv is one of those things that is so fun to be a part of but excruciating to observe if you aren’t involved. Like extreme PDA on the bus or conversations about astrology.

  Every Wednesday, for three hours, we were just making shit up. That’s all we were doing. As a team.

  Before my course, I never worried about the lack of play in my life. Now I don’t want to live in a world without it.

  Looking back on that Temple of Doom pileup, it seems so clear to me now that it was just the wrong exercise for me. Too physical. Too showy. No space for collaboration or fun. Plus, everyone in that first classroom had been larger than life, jumping and shouting and making every scene physical with wrestling matches or competitive dancing. I will always shirk when there are several loud, competing personalities in a room, even in improv.

  Because, personally, I’d much rather be playing a scene with one other person where we are arguing about Scrabble while locked in Reese Witherspoon’s guest bathroom. That is the kind of space I thrive in.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  One evening, on my way home, I accidentally bump into a woman with blue hair on the Tube.

  It’s Laura, from my improv class. We look at each other in recognition, followed quickly by mild horror.

  We’re not in our safe space anymore.

  “Hi,” she says quietly.

  “Hi,” I say, matching her volume. Like the guys in Fight Club with black eyes and broken jaws, seeing another improv-er outside of that space is awkward. We don’t actually know each other, and we share a dirty secret.

  Silence. She looks around the train.

  “This is my boyfriend,” she finally says, pointing to a tall blond man next to her.

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  “How do you two know each other?” he asks.

  The bearded man squashed between us looks up, interested.

  “We . . . we met at improv,” Laura says.

  I bite my lip. I see the other commuters silently digest this information.

  “Oh, so be funny together,” he says.

  “That’s not how it works,” Laura replies.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  My theory is that improv is so avoided because it’s a rarity to see unbridled joy in our adult lives. We keep our emotions in check, and it’s collectively agreed that explicit displays of strong feeling are uncomfortable for everyone. It’s safer for us to remain low-key and miserable, especially in England, where it is the accepted norm.

  After a few years in London, I had become cynical and worn down, but this course had awoken something that adulthood had quashed: I love playing, even when I’m not that good at it.

  In my final classes, I ended up laughing so hard that I cried. Either from watching my classmates or from particularly gifted people in my scene. Sometimes, I am full-on shaking with laughter, as tears stream down my face. The catharsis is like a high. A reset button after you’ve been stressed and bottled up. I hadn’t even known these people a few weeks ago, and now I am lying on the floor weeping next to them—and loving it so much.

  I am an introvert, and the delight I experienced in improv confounds me. I’d forgotten that “playing” was actually wonderful. I’d also forgotten that I could be decent at it. I had experienced moments of exhilaration during some of my other extroverting attempts, but here was something I felt wholeheartedly sure I wanted to be a part of my life.

  Before now, being in the spotlight, drawing attention to myself in any fashion, had always filled my body with adrenaline and paralyzing fear—at The Moth, my body was so tense and rigid onstage. That adrenaline behaved so differently when I was playing out unrehearsed scenes in a safe, friendly space with people I liked. The fear had transformed into excitement: I became dynamic, looser, freer. Happier.

  Which means I have to reckon with the most hideous thought I’ve ever had:

  I may be a secret theater kid.

  I might actually be a joyful bastard.

  nine

  Everest

  or

  Stand-up Comedy

  “People told me I was funny my entire life,” successful comedians always say in magazine interviews. “Friends kept telling me, ‘You should be a comedian!’”

  My brother Adam is considered the funny one in my family, and a fun, long-standing Christmas tradition as teenagers was visiting my Chinese aunt in California, who would survey my two brothers and me and announce, “Adam is also the best looking!” before patting our cheeks and walking off, leaving devastation in her wake.

  So, yes, no one had ever said to me: “Hey, you, in the corner, hiding, you should get onstage and take this mic. Yeah, you with the long bangs! Eating macaroni! Stop crying! Get up there and show us what you’ve got because I can tell you’re gonna be a star!”

  When I tell other people I’m going to try stand-up comedy, they always touch my arm, furrow their brow, and say, “You are so brave,” followed by, “That is my worst nightmare,” just in case I was considering making them do it, too.

  It’s my worst nightmare, too. But because it was the biggest feat I could imagine pulling off, it also felt like one of the most important. It combines pretty much all of my shintrovert fears into one gruesome event. And it feels like the ultimate chance to see whether I am or am not always going to be that person afraid and waiting in the shadows.

  Many comedians identify as introverts, which makes sense: they’re incredibly observant and have chosen a career where they are often alone (even when they are performing to sold-out arenas, it’s still only them onstage).

  For this task, I’d have to wrangle with my intense shyness, which is defined as a generalized fear of judgment from others. According to recent research, public speaking is the number one fear in America and 40–60 percent of the population identifies as shy. It’s amazing the human population has managed to spawn at all; our species truly has alcohol, cold winters, and R&B music to thank for helping us procreate.

  I take comfort in finding another comedian who is shy. Welsh comedian Rhod Gilbert decided to address his own debilitating shyness in a BBC documentary. He thinks that comedy can be a cure for sh
yness, in what he calls “comedic behavioral therapy.” He recruited three shy people to test out his theory, with miraculous results: despite performing stand-up comedy, they did not spontaneously combust in a fit of sparks and humiliation.

  There’s a lot I’ve learned this year: I know how to assist at the birth of an imaginary shrub and strike up conversations on the street and platonically date multiple women, but making people erupt with laughter feels like an impossible feat of wizardry.

  Unlike performing at The Moth at Union Chapel, this wasn’t just pure public speaking. Comedians interact with their audiences, sometimes even inviting them into the conversation. And while I’d started talking to strangers and had walked into several networking events alone this year, this was a giant leap into the murky deep end of my pool of social anxiety. Comedians are also expected to be quick on their feet: I’d have to become looser and less rigid and embrace the spontaneity I’d unearthed in improv. While onstage. I’d have to harness all of my extrovert lessons at once.

  Stand in the spotlight. Interact with the masses. Make them laugh. Be quick on my feet. Don’t crumble to dust.

  In a year of facing my fears, stand-up comedy was my Everest.

  And everyone knows that you don’t climb Everest alone unless you want to die. You need to buy the right clothes, and you need to tell your entire family that you love them and that you might never see them again. And you need a Sherpa.

  And so I had to find my Sherpa guide.

  I mention this challenge to Paul (remember, the real-life friend from Clitheroe that I met during my networking ventures?). He tells me that his girlfriend had taken a stand-up comedy class for beginners in King’s Cross. He said it had transformed her confidence. It had made her feel invincible. And she’d had a lot of fun doing it.

  Fun? I’d almost rather do nearly anything than perform stand-up comedy. Which is why I know I have to try. Because this could not be further from my comfort zone—I owe it to myself, and to other introverts (and, honestly, all other sane people who fear doing this), to go to the battle lines and report back. Because I’d rather do stand-up comedy than wonder “What if?” for the rest of my life. I’d rather do stand-up comedy than be insecure forever. I’d rather do stand-up comedy than look back and wish that I had been braver. I couldn’t go back in time and give a speech at my wedding, but I could attempt to do this. And after watching Into Thin Air: Death on Everest the other night, I’d certainly rather do stand-up comedy than actually climb Everest.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  At 3 a.m. one night, in a fit of the resolute confidence that comes to me in the early hours, I sign up for a seven-week comedy course. Then, like a drunk shopper bingeing on Amazon orders, I fall asleep and wake up the next morning with no memory of my recklessness.

  While brushing my teeth the next morning, it comes back to me, and I am filled with regret. This woman staring back at me in the mirror, toothbrush in hand, has betrayed me. But it’s too late. The money is already gone. So is my resolute confidence.

  On the first day of class, I have a spare hour after work before it’s due to start. And so I go home, climb into bed, lie down in a dark room, and assume the fetal position. This is my version of rallying. For some people, it’s punching the air or yelling at themselves in the mirror or doing lunges. For me, it is yelling into my pillow, “But I don’t want to go! I don’t want to! I don’t want to!” I saw my youngest nephew do this once and found it surprisingly effective.

  I punch the pillow one more time.

  Come on. I couldn’t give up now, facing my biggest fear after coming so far.

  What’s the worst that could possibly happen? (Answer: spontaneously combusting in a fit of sparks and humiliation.)

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  My Sherpa guide to comedy Everest turns out to be a forty-two-year-old stand-up comedian named Kate Smurthwaite, who leads the comedy course for beginners in the King’s Cross neighborhood. She is tall and imposing.

  “Go and get your own chairs from below the stairs! I’m too old to do that for you,” she tells each of us as we enter the classroom for the first time.

  Fourteen of us eventually file in and sit in a circle, upright on our plastic chairs. There’s a hyper energy in the air. Looking at the others one by one, I realize that, save for one or two quiet souls, I’m sitting with a group that is mostly made up of extroverts. I’ve finally found them! Here they all are! (Just kidding, they’ve always been easy to find; they are so loud.)

  We go around the circle and introduce ourselves. The group is made up of eight women and six men ranging in age from early twenties to midforties.

  Kate doesn’t waste any time. We go straight into our first writing exercise: making a list of ten things that we hate. The logic is that the best material comes from things we feel passionate about. My mind blanks as I try to think of things I hate. “Techno music?” I write. “People who talk in movie theaters?” I can’t think under this pressure at all. “Group activities,” I add.

  We are each to share one thing from our list; the person to our left has to tell us why that thing is actually brilliant. The aim is to get creative juices flowing, reverse our thinking, and get used to performing in front of each other.

  “Before you declare what you hate, stand up and introduce yourself and then say, ‘I am a hater!’” Kate instructs us.

  A girl in her late twenties with long, dark hair stands up. “My name is Vivian, and I am a hater!”

  Kate leads the class in lots of encouraging whoops and shouts.

  “And I hate . . . grown-ups on scooters!” Vivian declares. I nod in staunch agreement. The blond man from Essex on her left turns to her.

  “Oh no, see, that’s the best thing ever! These days people grow up too quickly, so it’s so great that these people are just reliving their childhoods,” he says, assuredly.

  A well-dressed, posh woman in heels reveals that she hates pantyhose because they’re so expensive, hard to put on, and always run. The man to her right, a good-looking guy in his late thirties named Noel, tells her, “But pantyhose are chic and warm! That’s two great things right away.”

  What a dumb, handsome idiot Noel is.

  As each person declares their hate, Kate leads us in cheering in solidarity. Yes! Boo to men who ride scooters! Fuck pantyhose! Down with software updates! Damn those people who don’t let people off the Tube before muscling their way on! Death to auto-tune!

  The best thing about this exercise is that everyone in class really goes for it. No one hesitates or is too cool. There doesn’t seem to be one jerk character in the bunch. Everyone claps in support of their shared hatreds.

  As I study my new classmates, I realize this could double as group therapy. It’s clear that everyone here must have some hole in their life: professional, social, or romantic. No one really seems to be here to actually become a comedian professionally—they are here to try on a different part of their personality, to meet new people, to escape the safe, boring clutches of normal life. We have each looked at our status quo and decided: something needs to change.

  Kate explains that the course consists of five classes, one rehearsal, and then a showcase where we each perform five minutes of material at a comedy pub in Leicester Square in central London in front of a real audience.

  Then she says, “Let’s talk about nerves for a minute.”

  My hands immediately go hot. I’ve had so much fun hating on Justin Bieber with the class that I’ve forgotten what we are actually there for—to learn how to perform stand-up comedy. To perform in front of a crowd.

  In six weeks, I’m going to be onstage. My heart rate picks up just thinking about it.

  “The most powerful thing you can do to overcome nerves is make friends with the people in this room.”

  We study each other uncertainly.

  “During these six weeks, we will all carry each
other through this. If you feel nervous, tell people about it. Go to the pub with each other. Have coffee before class. Grab a drink after class. Go to comedy gigs together. Share material with each other,” she says.

  Before I know it, class is over and everyone is gathering up their things and heading for the door. I’m confused. She just told us to all be friends and yet . . . everyone’s bolting separately. Where are all of my new best friends going?

  “Does anyone want to . . . write down their email and phone numbers in my notebook?” I hear myself calling out, waving my notebook in the air.

  Vulnerability has been the hardest part of this year. I am, once again, acting on psychologist Nick’s adage—nobody waves, but everyone waves back.

  My classmates all turn to me. “Yes!” they say, in excited unison, as they rush over toward me.

  One small mass email, one giant leap for introverts.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  By our second class, we have lost two good men. We never hear from them again.

  But the twelve others do show up (and will continue to do so over the course). Even after improv, I still can’t get over this. How rare is it to get twelve strangers in London to show up at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday evening seven times in a row?

  In class, we play lots of games. Kate assigns us worksheets to fill in as a way to structure our five-minute sets, but I don’t fill mine out. I’m still pretending I don’t have to do this performance, the same avoidance that made me not rehearse my Moth story.

  One of the biggest hurdles when it comes to performing comedy is that, to me, it is fundamentally a person standing onstage declaring to the audience, “I am funny, am I not? Hahahaha!” I find that entire concept deeply embarrassing. But nobody else in my class seems to feel this way.

  I’d once read that embarrassment is a healthy emotion, because it signals to others that we care about the social code. When we trip in public or realize we are waving to someone not waving at us, our blushing is an apology for breaking the code. It’s sad to find out that deep inside of you is . . . a desire to commit to societal norms.