I’m sitting in a cramped lobby in Pickering, Ontario. Gathered around me are other grade school kids whose parents had dragged them to their first after-school improv class. I’m sucking in my gut. I’m hunching my back. And I’m promising myself that my ample torso is being convincingly masked under the hanging cotton of my white polo shirt. I’ve become a master at camouflaging my faults, even if the kids at school aren’t buying it.
The door squeaks open, and a blonde woman invites us into an open, carpeted performance space. She says her name is Jackie, and she invites us to form a circle.
My eyes wander towards the others for the first time as we take up our positions. They have some…peculiar features. Popped zits. Loose shirts. Scabs and scratches. Subtle signs of misfit-dom that remind me of my own dysmorphia.
Flailing our arms and legs in this confused, half-hearted hokey pokey, our warm-up proves that we’re not the most kinaesthetically in-tune bunch. But we give it time. Before long, our limbs begin to spin freely; then, an overzealousness grips the room. Eventually, we’re zipping across the carpet in our socks…singing, jumping, hollering, losing our minds and shedding our skin. The sensation of formlessness holds us with care.
A few minutes of hyperactivity won’t cure body dysmorphia. A few freeing moments of mania won’t solve all your problems. But when you sign up for an improv class, you just might find what you really need: a little bit of silliness with other self-conscious humans.
I’m Ethan Lee, and that’s my perspective.
