“Raise your hands above your head, and wave like you’re happy to see me!” she yelled at those of us sitting in the audience. “Wave more! You’re REALLY HAPPY! You’re REALLY, REALLY HAPPY! Tug on your right earlobe, and at the same time, tug on your left earlobe with your opposite hands, while doing the hokey-pokey, and turning yourself around! Jump up and down in your chair but DO NOT stand up, and sing the Declaration of Independence to the melody of Hello Dolly!*

Uh, oh. What did I get myself into? S**t. I hate audience participation exercises. Icebreakers. Warm-ups. Make a decision. Are they cold or are they hot? The audience is all the way in. They’re playing this game and shouting responses; they’re raising their hands and waving like lunatics.

Not me. I’m planted in my seat, arms folded across my chest, resolute in my decision not to play. I paid $25 plus fees to be entertained. I paid $25 plus fees to be a supportive friend. I had no idea I’d be expected to join in. I am not into this. If I want to perform, I’d be on that stage.

I’m sitting in the audience. I want to be anonymous.

I hear my brain yammering away, and I nod my head at my predictable resistance. I smile, and try very hard to surrender. A little voice berates me, Lighten up, Nan. Why is this so hard for you?

I’m not all the way in, because if I was all the way in, I might enjoy myself. Isn’t it enough that I bought a ticket for $25 PLUS fees? I left my warm house on a frigid night, because I love my friend Nancy.

I should have noticed the clues when I first arrived; this wasn’t going to be easy. What do you mean, the theater’s upstairs? There’s no elevator? I eyed the stair lift chair and considered hitching a ride. I don’t need help climbing stairs; I’m just lazy and out of shape.

When I get to the second floor, I’m blasted with music so loud, I want to turn around, run down the stairs, and end the evening before it has a chance to begin. Then I wonder if I really have auditory processing issues. That’s what I tell people when I have an overreaction to noise. It’s possible that I’m just a delicate princess rearing my privileged head.

One small consolation was the dish of mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I discovered just outside the theater door. Chocolate and peanut butter makes everything better.

I grab an aisle seat. The show hasn’t started but I’m mapping out my exit. My go-bag is packed; I can sneak out right after Nancy’s part of the show. I’ll dash for the door, but I’ll be discreet.

I dig through my bag for earplugs, desperate to lower the volume. They’re useless, the music is so loud. I take a deep breath and invite myself to get over it, already. I settle into my chair, open my mind, and remind my heart why I was there.

“My improv show is tonight,” Nancy wrote in an email that day.

“What? How come you didn’t tell me? Can I come?”

She told me she didn’t invite anyone, and then she sent the link so I could buy a ticket (for $25 plus fees) but I don’t think she was happy about it. I want to go and kvell. Kvell? Yiddish. To feel happy and proud. I want to applaud her.

Performing in this show and taking improv classes is a big deal for Nancy. Months ago, she told me over cocktails, that she was failing improv. Her teacher said she couldn’t advance to the next level with her classmates because she needed to loosen up and listen. She needed to relax.

She didn’t graduate from Level One on the first try; so she signed up again. It didn’t make her give up. There’s a good chance if that happened to me, I would have stomped off, my ego bruised. There’s a good chance, I would have been angry, too.

For Nancy, the show tonight is the culmination of months of classes.

Nancy does brave things all the time. Over the years, she’s inspired me to do brave things, too. Those are stories for another day. All I’ll say is there were elephants, 24-hour flights, and a couple of impulsive puppy adoptions involved.

Braving has become a recurring theme in my life. A welcome one, no matter how uncomfortable the process of getting there has been. Braving offers me an invitation to thrive and live a full life.

And still, before I do something new, my first reflex is to feel scared and want to hide. I yearn to come down with a mysterious flu, a sudden high fever, or a sprained lower back. Here’s a good one: a power outage that makes it impossible to free my car from my garage because of my sprained lower back.

It’s always easier in the moment to opt out, to stay home. It has little to do with reality, and lots to do with shame. The old remnants, the “I’m not good enough to…fill in the blank.” But it’s harder in the long run, because just like credit card interest, shame compounds over time.

So, I get up, put my coat on, kiss the pups, and open my f*****g garage door

Even with all the therapy and 12-step work I’ve done, it seems I still need to go through this process before I can get to my yes. And from what I hear, improv is all about the YES.

The phrase “I’m not good enough,” has escorted me through life, saying things likeYou can’t! Who do you think you are? They’ll laugh at you. Sweet little nothings that do so much harm.

When these feelings come up, I can smile at them more quickly. I say, I hear you; I know you, I understand, but it’s time for you to move along, because I have a life to live. I’ve let you run the show long enough, now it’s my turn to direct.

I sit in the audience, grumbly and uncomfortable. I sit in the audience and watch Nancy do her thing. She plays, she imitates farm animals, makes funny noises, and sings. In 15 years of friendship, I’ve never heard her sing. I didn’t know she could. I watch her meet her discomfort and embrace it. I assume that once this performance is over, she’ll move on to her next challenge. I found out later that my assumption was wrong.

Sitting in the audience, I recall the me I used to be when I was young. I performed as a clown and mime in high school. Wearing clown make-up and a costume made it easier to be on stage, because I was playing someone else. I still dress like Marcel Marceau. I did have a larger capacity for silliness and play, in between the bouts of teenage angst and rage.

I’m dealing with the angst and rage. I have better tools. I want to have fun. I want to laugh and play, even though life and our current state of affairs in this country tamp my desires from one minute to the next. That thought, that I shouldn’t be having fun, while the world is on fire.

The other thing that’s kept me back? My old pal, body shame.

I thought about the bigger-than-life improv actors and compared them to clowns. There are a lot of similarities. I thought about my love for storytelling. I pondered the idea of signing up for the Level One class.

What? What am I thinking?

The woman who led the audience through the warm-ups? She’s the teacher. It’s her school. She’s too loud, this is too physical, I’m too fat. Despite my resistance, I had a funny feeling in my belly. The feeling that improv is my next right thing to do. The next brave thing.

I left the show that night with improv on my mind.

Should I do it? Maybe. I’ll sit with it. What if I hate it? What if I suck at it? I won’t suck at it. What’s the hesitation about? The fear?

The fear is that I’ll be awkward in the fatness of my body. Then this thought came next, What a great opportunity to BE in my body. Fully out there, in front of a roomful of people. To let go of the shame, once and for all.

I went to the school’s website a bunch of times but kept stopping when I got to the payment button. It took me seven days to fill out the application, pay the tuition and set up the interview with the loud lady from the show.

I meet with her today. I’ll keep you in the loop.

In the past year, I’ve lost a significant amount of weight. I’m still fat, and that’s okay. This story isn’t about the pounds that have fallen away. It’s about the weight that lifted because of my recovery work. The weight I’ve carried on my body is the metaphor for what I’ve carried around for decades. The weight of shame and fear. As I shed shame and fear, my body sheds its fat, its armor.

I’m not hiding anymore.

Over the past five years, I’ve met myself in the mirror, at my kitchen table, in my car, in bed, and in mindless trips to my refrigerator and pantry whenever triggers arise. And I’ve met myself in my relationships with others.

The weight of resistance, of carrying false core beliefs, and all the ways I’ve hidden throughout my life, has lifted.

When that weight falls away, I’m left with me, and that’s all I need. Me. Because of the work I’ve done, I’m revealing myself a little at a time. I’m coming out to play. I’ve told you my stories, first recording my voice, then, using video to show my face. Those were brave steps. I’ve startedWham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!

And, the next step? The Full Monty. NO, I won’t be naked. I promise it will never go that far. But I’ll be showing all of me, in front of people who are there to cheer me on.

I’m getting on that stage.

*Disclaimer: When I shared this story with Samantha Jones before publication, I asked her if there was anything she’d like me to tweak for the sake of accuracy. She admitted she was slightly horrified at the way I described the loud lady doing icebreakers and warm-ups. Sam wants potential improv-loving audience-goers to be assured that her warm-ups are nothing like the ones I described.

Yes. I was employing that handy tool that writers sometimes use, exaggeration. I’ll do anything to get a laugh. Well, except for the real Full Monty. That’s where I draw the line.

Improv isn’t about being funny, it’s about being free.

Because every human was born to play.

Samantha Jones, Hudson Valley Improv

Wham! Bam! Thank You! Slam!’s next show is February 21, 2026. The theme is The Love Boat, our nod to Valentine’s Day.

Ten great storytellers talk about love in four minutes or less. It’s on Zoom!

The lineup:

Kari Bentley-Quinn, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sarah Hauser, Amanda Jaffe. Kara Westerman (she/her), Jennifer Silva Redmond, Kelly Thompson TNWWY Janine De Tillio Cammarata 🖊️, Susan Kacvinsky, Irena Smith, Eileen Dougharty

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