You Are Special (Phil and Me)

I've put this one off for quite a while. I've been writing though, since the moment, Rick put a hand on my shoulder and said simply, "Phil passed away last night..."

Phil went to heaven on Oct 31, 2018.

Who was he?

In the simplest terms, he was a financial advisor. What we both couldn't have known when I started out as a wet behind the ears sales assistant was that I would be the last sales assistant he ever worked with and he would be so much more than just another financial advisor to me. He would become a friend, a confidant, a second grandfather.

Sometimes I think about Phil being in heaven and I always see him seated at some sort of celestial desk, mahogany with brass fixtures and he's dressed in a white double-breasted suit with gold pinstripes. Sort of a heavenly stock trader if you will.  As ever, he's watching a ticker, maybe trading shares of commodities like gold, myrrh, frankincense, rubies, etc.

That's how I best remember him, sitting there, a  be-spectacled diminutive grey-haired man behind a massive desk, his eyes fixed on the television waiting for the pundits to do their thing, then the light coming into his eyes when he fixed on his prize, usually a bio-tech of some sort and then he'd start working the phones calling all his top-tier clients, making the trades. He'd come out of his office, walk to my desk and drop a screed of stock reports on my desk saying jubilantly, "this is it Jill, Leopold Pharmaceuticals!"Make sure these are mailed out to Rupert Wallace!" Then he'd come a little closer and say, "Now, tomorrow I think we'll bottom out, but by Thursday, we're talking at least a 1-2 point spread!" 

In the stock market, there are few hard and fast rules, compliance not withstanding, someone is  always either in the money, at the money or out of the money. Phil was generally all three at different times, but his enthusiasm never waned. He loved the cut and thrust of the market. Truthfully, I think he would have worked for free.

After the excitement of the new hot tip died down, usually at about 10:30, Phil would leave the office and walk several laps around the parking lot getting in his exercise, he lunched around 11:00, generally Panera soup or his favorite thing, a Chik Fil-A sandwich, coming back to the office at around 12:00 whereupon he allowed himself one snack size Kit-Kat that he kept in the freezer door of the office refrigerator. Then it was back to his office to check up on the markets, snooze for a bit in his chair, and leave the office promptly at 2:00 p.m. to go home for his nap.

After all, when I started work as his assistant, he was 84 years young.

Despite the difference in our ages, Phil and I shared a lot in common, we were both stubborn Germanic types, both bull-dog in our tenacity and our work ethic, we loved cats and we loved movies. Many mornings as I came in to the office, Phil would already be in the office kitchen making the generally agreed upon worst coffee in the world, and he and I would always talk movies. Phil was unique in that, despite being born in 1930, he wasn't stuck in that time. In fact, while I enthused about movies from his childhood, Phil would scoff, full of his enthusiasm for the latest blockbuster installment in the Marvel franchise or Disney. He liked to relate in some detail all of the plot, so if I didn't want to know or hadn't seen a movie, I would have to quickly change the subject.

When the day finally came when Phil acquiesced to retire at age 86, I organized most of his retirement party, and as per usual, I worked hard on it, rushing around, checking details, working furiously to dull the ache inside about the coming days when he'd no longer be around every day to chat about movies, cats, Indy racing and life.

When the last moment came, the last piece of cake eaten, the last glass of sparkling wine drunk, before taking that last walk to his car as a full fledged broker, Phil sought me out. I was cleaning the conference room, carrying out bags of trash full of all the detritus of any good party and he stopped me, hugged me, and then, something I will never forget,  he took hold of my shoulders looked me square in the eyes and said, "You. Are. Special... you're special!"

I am not humble-bragging. To this moment, I would have given anything to truly understand what he meant by that. So many times to me, I'm so ordinary, so unremarkable. When I look in the mirror, I mostly wish the other image was cuter, thinner, prettier. What Phil saw, I'll never know, but I'll never forget it.

After that, in the next year or so, he came around to visit every so often, stubbornly refusing to use the cane he'd been prescribed, so my co-workers and I took it in turn, to watch him surreptitiously, hiding behind walls and plants to avoid injuring his pride but so that we could have the piece of mind that he'd not fallen as he made his rickety way to his car. He always managed to somehow make me feel that he still thought of me as special, important.

When the moment came last autumn, that he'd had a fall that required surgery but he couldn't seem recover from, Rick, another of the brokers advised,

"Jill, if you want to see him again, I wouldn't wait."

I took the injunction for what it was, made my way to the hospital, dreading the moment where I'd have to see him, not full of life and hugs and kind words, but hooked to machines with tubes and wires everywhere, and up in that small hospital room, Phil and I had our final conversation.

The nurse insisted he could still understand despite being heavily sedated.  This time it was a one-sided conversation, I did all of the talking and sometimes begging, wishing that he'd sit up and just... anything, argue, get stubborn, spoil the plot of another movie for me...I talked, telling him all about the office, the markets.  I explained improv and the triangle of the scene, telling him about all the people I met doing scenes and how much I loved it. Then I just sat in the chair next his bed unable to contain my tears any longer, knowing that I was going to have to finish the conversation and not knowing how. And then I said, "Phil, you are special, you mean more to me than I have words to tell you!" And with a last look at him, I walked away.

I'm different since Phil died; I found myself wanting to share with others what he taught me. People need to be told they are special, that they mean something to you.

I was stingy with myself before Phil, now I write the email or leave the message, no matter how awkward or emotionally naked I may feel afterward. Sometimes there are replies and sometimes there is silence and that's okay too. For me, it's knowing that I've taken the time and told you how special you are and how important your presence in my life is to me. Sometimes life is just showing up, being there for, and somehow letting each other know that you are special.

In this way, for me, Phil lives on.

Pursuit of Ham

So it's Easter 2019 and all apologies to any of my Jewish brethren, in our family, Easter means just one thing, ham.

Fresh ham.

To the uninitiated, and everyone who though that ham was merely…ham. You couldn’t be more wrong.

Traditional hams are pinkish-hued from the curing process and oblong in shape. Many are spiral-sliced, glazed, pineapple and cherry-topped, square and pink and studded with cloves. They are in their different ways, sweet and salty, smoked, tangy and foil-wrapped.

Ours is not...because my culinary-trained father will brook none other than the elusive, un-popular, un-cured, hard to source fresh ham.

It all starts out so easy… Remembering, last years’ ham quest that saw me in full panic-mode feverishly propositioning a meat manager at Publix on Good Friday, as in, “If your 4:30 customer doesn’t come in for the ham, where’s the harm in selling it to me!” “Okay, what about half, can you sell me just half the ham?!” this year I ordered ahead. Three weeks ahead to be exact.

This year there would be no back alley deals where I, clothed in trench coat and sunglasses, a fedora with my blonde hair peeking out the sides perched on my head, and a $50 dollar bill ‘palmed’ in my right hand, spy a burly guy with 9:00 p.m. stubble, a white butcher’s coat, hairnet, steel-toed shoes and Ray-bans and nod twice giving the ‘sign’.

“You got the stuff?” I say…

“You got the cash?” burly butcher says…

I slide the $50 into his mesh-gloved palm, anxiously looking from side to side, while he kicks a lumpy white paper parcel at my feet, saying, “Nobody but nobody hears about this, right?”

“Last thing I need is those goons over at Winn Dixie, or Walmart finding out about this!”

“Last year I was nearly blackballed when some newb over at The Fresh Market began peddling un-cured bacon and sausage out behind Whole Foods!”

I nod nervously, grab my contraband pork and disappear into the night.

Surely this year would be different...

The first warning came when I realized it was the Sunday before Easter and I had received no reassuring call from Publix assuring me that my fresh plastic wrapped blade end ham was sitting waiting for me in the walk-in. This year I would leave nothing to chance. I took evasive action and drove to my neighborhood Publix made my way to the meat counter, where I encounter, Ileana who is rapidly filling in pre-packaged chicken nuggets. I approach her,

"Can I ask you a quick question?"

 "Si...ummm Yes?"

"Are the fresh hams in yet?"

"Si...ummm yes", Ileana indicates the case where row upon row of spiral-sliced hams in their glittery, gold packages sit waiting for purchase.

"No, those are cured hams, I ordered a fresh ham" I comment making my tone as even-tempered and rational as I didn't feel.

"You order ham?" Ileana looks at me quizzically.

"Yes, I ordered a ham two (2) weeks ago."I say fighting for calm, panic rising in me.

"Okay, they call you."

"They'll call me, so they haven't come in yet?" I say, feeling reassured, okay, they just weren't in yet.

"Okay, si...ummm yes they call!" Ileana says.

"Look, do you just want to take my name down again?...."

"Okay, si...ummm yes they call you!"

Ileana moves further away from the nutty blonde who is looking bewilderingly at her...and as I finally turn and walk away, she's still saying,

"Si, okay...they call you!"

They're not going to call me; I know that as surely as I know that the dinosaur shaped nuggets she's stacking in the case have rarely made contact with a chicken.

Me, being me, I maintain my optimism. Over the next few days, I keep my cell phone at arms' length at my desk, and every time it lights up, I just know it's going to be the Publix meat department with news of my porcine parcel.

By Wednesday evening, I am in despair..no ham, forget that...no hope of ham. I call my Dad,

"Dad, I don't know if I can get the ham in time for Easter"

"What...no ham?"

"I ordered from Publix like three (3) weeks ago and they never called!" (I actually know this feeling well, it's like waiting for a guy to call after a date you are sure went great and you never get the call)
I relate the story to him of Ileana and the fact that she was certain they'd call, and my Dad explodes like Vesuvius,

"Stupid Publix, I will never, ever, ever buy a piece of meat from them again!" "They can rot before I step foot in their stores again!"

"Okay, I'm on this!" he says and with that hangs up.

Which is exactly what I knew would happen, newly semi-retired and ever spoiling for a fight, my Dad begins his own ham-quest. There is nothing my dad loves more then stepping into the fray culinarily. When he used to cater, bakers, meat managers and produce stand owners alike, stood up a little straighter and made way when my father stopped in sourcing his goods.

A little while later, I get a phone call from my Dad,

"Okay, I called every grocery store in two counties ( I refrain from asking if Publix was in that number) but I think I got a couple of leads, guy at Whole Foods says they just got a shipment of fresh hams, not only that but blade end!,"  he says jubilantly. "They'll have one for you tomorrow afternoon!", making it the Thursday before Easter. Tricky, very tricky.

So, on Thursday afternoon, I confidentially stride up to the meat counter at the Whole Foods where I meet up with Reuben and say,

"My dad called ahead and was told you guys would have fresh hams today!"

Reuben says, "Yes ma'am, we surely do!" and takes me to a case filled with golden glittery wrapped spiral smoked hams. Argghhh!

"I'm sorry but these aren't fresh hams" I say, a tear welling up in my left eye.

"We just got them in today!" Reuben asserts.

"Yes, but I wanted an un-cured, fresh ham, blade end if possible" I sniffle.

"You mean you want a raw ham?" Reuben stares at me as if I had just asked for a bald eagle to be shot and dressed on a silver platter.

"Yes, exactly a RAW ham, un-cooked in any way, un-cured, un-smoked. RAW!" I shout, flailing my hands for emphasis. Several customers turn around and look over at me with naked curiosity. Who's the crazy-eyed blonde losing it in the meat department?

"Listen, I gotta check with Chuck the meat manager about this", Reuben says sotto voce, as if I was trying to buy black market arms. "Maybe we have something in the back..."

We approach Chuck who, in the attempt to sell two little old ladies some steaks, is giving them an entire anatomy lesson on how the steaks came to be, how they were cut and from which part of the animal, and they are listening with rapt attention, because Chuck basically is classically handsome and has just the kind of face little old ladies love. I hate him on sight, because he stands between me and the ham. When we get to Chuck, he has just got to the part where 'when the male steer and the female steer really love one another...' and Reuben whispers in his ear, 'umm this lady is looking for a fresh ham'... Chuck cocks an eyebrow and aims a look of distaste at me because I have the gall to interrupt his meat lecture and says condescendingly, "When I'm finished with these customers, I'll have a look in the back". The little old ladies look at me bitchily as if to say, "beat it blondie, he's ours", and something in me just snaps.

I'm sick of Reuben, Chuck, the little old ladies, the patchouli laden, hippy, compounding pharmacy smell of Whole Foods and the weird screamy music playing on the Muzak in the store.

"Never mind!" I say airily as I march back through the over-priced produce section and out the front door. I sit in my car for a few moments trying to put things in perspective. I tell myself this is a 1st World problem, remembering how my actor teacher Lauren always reminds us how so many people in the world have it worse. It doesn't help though, I think, "I know I'm past the age where I expect the Easter Bunny to leave a candy-laden basket with a chocolate bunny on top, all I wanted was to make a nice fresh ham dinner!"

I call my Dad and relay my failure to source a ham at Whole Foods, and he responds typically,

"I've always hated Whole Foods, damned over-priced produce, I like the wraps at Fresh Market much better!"

"Okay, I've got one more source, there's a guy over at "Marshall's Meats" and they say they've got 'em, fresh hams , butt-end AND blade-end, cut to order", okay it's Good Friday and it's cutting it close, but if you get there early..."

So on Good Friday, I rise early, I dress quickly, I'm at the store ten minutes before it opens and though there are elegant foodstuffs, there is foie gras, there is caviar, there are standing roasts and crown roasts and delicate fileted Cornish Game hens, I only have eyes for the fresh ham which sits tantalizingly in the case, there isn't a gold sparkly package in sight!  The butcher spies me, it's easy to do, I'm the only one staring at the meat case with tears in my eyes.

"Can I help you?" he says, perhaps a fresh ham?" I nod, the search over and the quest complete, I leave the store with the ham tucked neatly under my arm. I think I'm in love with that butcher, although I'm not entirely sure what he looked like...

Surely next year will be easier...

So maybe titles are overrated...

Especially when you can't think of one...

Here we are again...Gen X Life...I can't seem to quit you.

So...happening in my life right now...playoff  hockey, waiting for Yacht Rock to come back to Sirius (hey I don't judge you), and haunting Target & Publix for Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs. I can't seem to quit them either. I rationalize this, by saying things like, 'they only come around once a year' and 'it's tradition' and 'it's Easter, I am pretty sure God would want it this way, after all He made chocolate and peanut butter...right?'

I've been giving a lot of thought to my former post and pondering my life. The things that are working and the things that need 'tweaking', or 'editing'. I haven't reached the conclusions that I thought I would. That's hardly surprising though. So much of my time is spent in the service of others, it's basically my whole job. New guy in the office observed recently, "I've never seen anyone multi-task so many things at once." And I thought, "It's no wonder I can never seem to think about what's really important, what's next in my own life. I am too busy thinking of what's next in terms of keeping all the clients happy, keeping everything afloat." Juggling. 

Frankly, I am a tired and apparently crappy juggler. Up until now, I was so full of my own importance, being essential to my job, to my family, to even my classmates at improv, it never occurred to me to wonder if I was actually accomplishing any of the 'big picture' things such as personal fulfillment, joy, meeting personal goals, maybe actually finding my 'someone' or traveling, etc.

I dig still deeper...do I do that, fixate on my work performance, family, etc. because of my ever present fear of failure, my own personal boogie man that doesn't merely live under my bed like he used to when I was 6, but now rides shotgun in the car, lives under my desk at work and in the corners of my subconscious mind? Making it that much easier to succumb to the pull of inertia and just kick the can down the road a little longer.

Another conclusion I come to, is a bit surprising. I always seem to be on some epic quest for my 'soulmate', or call it 'true love', 'finding the one', etc. There are lots of ways to express it, but the other day it occurred to me, that there are soulmates everywhere in my life, that there is love.  I mean, in a mind-blowing, 'wow, I didn't see this coming' kind of way. There are these wonderful people I am in classes with, some of whom I've come to know through drinks after shows, etc. Actors who pour their whole lives into their careers and who inspire me through their passion and sometimes, through their struggles. I've met gifted engineer types who also just happen to be incredibly funny, programmers, veterinarians, administrative and finance types like me,  people from all walks of life who in this surprisingly weird way, I love. For their courage, their humanity, their willingness to be vulnerable, and for the fact that we share some sort of unique kinship the minute we are on stage together.

So, yeah...titles are a bit overrated. Think I am going to give up mine..."Perfectionistic Administrator" "Best Daughter/Sister/Aunt in World", "World-Class Improviser"...and just assume one "Imperfect Human Being"...

The Hard Edit of Life

In Improv, for me, one of the hardest things to master is the edit. Simply put, editing is where you ‘wipe’ the scene and start something new. Think back to every time, Michael Palin, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam or Eric Idle (Monty Python) gleefully shouted, “And now for something completely different” and you have the general idea of an edit.

There are ‘tag edits’, meaning you tap someone on the shoulder and take their place in the scene and in so doing, bring a fresh approach or idea to that scene and then there is the so-called, ‘hard edit’ where you walk across the stage, ending all scenes and wiping everyone from the stage. It’s the equivalent of bringing down the curtain in dramatic theatre. There is generally very little or no curtain in improv and it makes sense, a curtain would just get in the way of all that scene building.

One of my instructors, wisely said recently that in life, just like improv “mastering it means knowing when to edit”. And just like in improv, where the real beauty of it, is its impermanence, so life can be also.

I think the most difficult thing for me personally is that I have always lived my life so safely. There have been many times where I’ve almost quit on Improv, because it was forcing me to change so frequently and disquietingly. I’m a much more conventional type of person than many of my scene partners and often I wonder if I ‘stick out too much’. ‘Am I suited for this?’ is a question that I often ponder when standing outside of myself and observing the other me in class and shows.

Being Gen X is often problematic as well, so many of my classmates and scene partners are so much younger than I, with Millennials often the elder-statesmen where it used to be my fellow Gen X’ers. One time, we were called to do an exercise where we pretended to take  objects out of an imaginary gym bag, making statements about them and pantomiming their use, acting on whatever impulse you had, but all of the objects had to follow a ‘trend’ and then you were to ‘hand them’ to your scene partner who in turn would respond as to how he or she felt about these objects. I found myself pulling out a Slinky, an old Duran Duran tape, a beat up old Cabbage Patch kid, and other assorted Gen X paraphernalia out of the bag, thoroughly enjoying myself and eagerly acting out all my nostalgia and enthusiasm for these missed objects. When the scene finished and the instructor came around to ask the question every improviser hears 1,000 times by the end of their first year, “how did that feel?” my scene partner said, “I dunno, she was pulling out all of these old 80’s toys and stuff!” And bam! once again it hits me over the head, we are a generation apart, while he might know of the objects, he doesn’t really get how I felt about them, because he probably never played with any of them. It was the same in an earlier class where I attempted to explain the concept of sticker albums and trading of the same, to nothing but blank looks and a couple of people who just looked up for a second before diving back into the conversation they were having with a colleague on social media on their I-phone.

An even stickier situation is when you are Gen X and single and find yourself, unsettlingly attracted to someone who could also potentially be your son, or was too young to remember Challenger.

That’s when the editing comes in again, what am I doing in this life? Do I belong in this group? What could I do differently to change my situation? Should I move? 

Most of the time however, inertia takes over and you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing…which any improviser worth their salt knows is the best way to ruin a scene.

So do I succumb to inertia or do I hard edit my life…

Stay tuned.

Famous Last Words

"These are the last words I have to say, that's why this took so long to write. There will be other words some other day, but that's the story of my life..."

Damn, I wish I'd written this, but I didn't, Billy Joel did.

 I love a few things in this material life (not spiritual), Billy Joel songs, pizza, cats and words. I care about other things, but just not as passionately.
In any case, I can't think of any more fitting words to end this blog series.

Yep, you heard right. I've decided to end Gen X Life (aka Strikes Back). For reasons of both practicality and creativity. Google plus is going away and it's time for me to take a new approach to my writing. Maybe even gain a following. All apologies to those who do read this. Although, I am not really sure who any of you are, because most of you have never commented. 

I am still proudly Gen X and I'm certain it will be mentioned in my next incarnation. I'll put a link up here soon.

This feels bittersweet. Over the last few days, I've been going over old posts and alternately thinking, "Wow, I really love this!" and "Man, I really phoned that in" and "What was I thinking?"
Sometimes I feel like I've been too candid in some of my posts. Or embarrassingly wordy. Other times it seemed like I just couldn't fit the words to my hypothesis. There are many posts that still remain as drafts because they were just too personal to share.

My mom (one of my main fans) once said that often the posts sounded angry, which is a fair assessment; I figured if you can't be angry in your own blog, where can you be? She also mentioned that they'd be intimidating to people who weren't as in love with words as I am. For years, I've constantly walked the line between not wanting to stifle my own voice and stop being me and wanting to develop more of a following.

Two recent examples of this come to mind. Both happened in Improv class. Once, one of my instructors asked me to 'give him a word' and as God as my witness, the first word that came to mind was "antidisestablishmentarianism'. I'll never forget the look on his face as long as I live when the word came flying out of my mouth. I know the common reaction here would be that I was 'showing off' but actually, when he asked for a word, I was so flattered that I thought, 'let me give him the best one I can!' People don't always take it that way though...

The second recent example was the other week, when I was in a scene and threw out the word 'ordnance' (like your type of explosive, i.e., what's your ordnance, ordinary dynamite or C4). I figured in a world where there is a new action movie released every week, it would be a no-brainer. But in notes, my instructor noted, "You know Jill, 90% of our audience is not going to know what ordnance means".  I understood but I was crushed inside.

All of my life, the words have just been there. I figure it's my superpower. The gift I'd been bequeathed. To not use them, for me, is to not breathe, not be. I'm fair at a lot of things, I'm pretty terrible at sports or anything that requires any level of hand eye coordination. In 'shop class', I caught my hand in a vice, had my birdhouse fly back at me from the band saw and hit me in the head and repeatedly glued myself to things. Let's just say that the Property Brothers don't keep me on speed dial for finish carpentry. Although strangely, I am actually a bronze level Ballroom dancer, so I can move my feet just not my hands?  Being socially awkward is only twice as painful when in addition to the awkward, people don't understand you or worse feel that you are snobby or somehow 'making fun' of them. Even so, I decided a long time ago, that I'd rather deal with it, than give up the words.

I hope that you at least enjoyed some of them.

Thanks for reading.
Catch you later.

On Relationships..and Other Things I Don't Understand

  
The other day, someone close to me accused me of being unromantic. Actually they went as far as to say that I somehow 'quenched' romance. It really got me thinking. I had a couple of longer car trips this weekend, usually the place that I do my best thinking and I was feeling...well...I can only describe it as 'raw' or perhaps fragile, like some part of me was left exposed. Picture a busy morning where you alarm didn't go off and you threw your clothes on at top speed, improperly fastening the buttons in wrong holes causing your shirt to gape open. I felt like that exposed skin where the button wasn't plugged in the right hole.

What was wrong with me?

It started off with a perfectly innocent remark.  I said that I've always loved that song, "I'd Really Love To See You Again" by England Dan and John Ford Coley because there is clear intent in the words, the man tells the woman in the song that he just wants to see her again that night, he's not trying to plan the future, "he won't ask for promises, so you don't have to lie". It's the clarity that I love in the words. The woman in question won't torture herself waiting for a phone call or a text (if the song was written today) that will never come. He's just talking the present, "I want to see you now" They can take a walk or watch TV...whatever. The receiver of this remark thought it was horrible, how I'd seemingly condensed romance into what they presumed was a one-night stand. For the record, I've never thought that was the intent of the song at all. And this person said I'd managed to completely destroy romance. To say I was wounded was an understatement.

Over the years, days after a date, or a job interview, or even just a meet up with friends were an obstacle course of me going over just about everything I'd said or done. I'd analyze the silences, fret about nuance or hidden meanings.' Had I chosen the right clothes?' 'PLEASE GOD, tell me I didn't have anything in my teeth!' It got so miserable that I gave up. I was weary of wondering if I was likeable, desirable or....that most serious of all things...lovable.

That song, always gave me hope that maybe one day, a rare sort of man would come along, with clear intent, no games, a guy who saw romance in the "warm wind blowing the stars around".

What are personal relationships anyway....what's the deal?

Damned if I know.

A big part of Improv is the emphasis on personal relationships and recently I took a workshop on realizing the 'who' of situational comedies. It dawns on me that this isn't just something I need to master in improv, this is something that I frequently miss in my personal life. I'm often so busy concentrating on the 'what', I just leave the 'who' to its own devices.

I think of it as 'life triage'. I must stop the bleeding, i.e., literally when I worked for the veterinary clinic, or metaphorically now, do the distribution, scrub the app, finish the report, update the spreadsheet. The 'what' has taken over my life, to the extent where my scenes were clunky and awkward because I would take the scene so literally, caring more about the thing we were doing then the relationship between us. And it carries over to my life, I'm better at the 'what', more self-assured, more in control, so I concentrate on that. Mastery of spreadsheets, insurance law, pet care, Star Wars trivia, anything that will keep me from the realization that I actually need people and more than that desire them in my life.

But that means the agony of vulnerability, having to be willing to put myself out there, to explore the double edged sword of the fears of rejection and failure.

Lately I've been trying it, with mixed results, I'm still awkward, but maybe improv has made me a little more willing to fail, more willing to even experiment, to flirt, to try...

Black Box

It's 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night and I am quite literally standing in the center of a black box. It's a stage actually...a small stage...not quite 6 feet from one end to the other and the walls on all sides are painted black, the curtain (which is rarely ever closed) is black and the rugs on the tiled floor beneath us are black. My mind is racing, as is my pulse...there's no script, I'm completely dependent on the guy standing next to me who looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to utter just one phrase., the phrase that will set our scene and tell us where to go..."You're so....

I freeze...words are firing off in my brain, weird words like incandescent, obstruse, popcorn...cotton ball...none of them words I can really use...some I am not sure are actually words. None of them emotions.. I stand blankly staring at my scene partner who is clearly beginning to hate me...sweat is pooling in my bra, my mouth is dry and finally I say, "You're so intuitive"...Scene partner stares back at me as if to say, "Really, that long...and that's what you come up with!"

Seeing that stage for the first time 4 months ago, my first impression was to... maybe back away slowly...perhaps I could still get a refund... the words "what have I done?" beating a constant tattoo in my brain.

Fast forward approximately 4 months and there are few places I've loved more.

To speed this up a little and make it still more clearer. These days, I'm (as I'm told by my supportive classmates when I doubt myself) a performer of IMPROV...or to be more grammatically correct and wordy, "Improvisational Acting". It probably should be written Improv, but when I think about it, to me it's always IMPROV. It seems to call for capitalization, for import, for fanfare.

How I got here is a story best reserved for another time and place, but the point is...I got here.
Every week, I go to class, perform and I challenge myself a little more, every week I get a little closer to being the person that I always knew was in here, someplace deep down. The kind of person who knows how to play, to have fun, to be funny, to say all of the things that are in my head and never let out.

Sometimes I have to metaphorically shut the old Jill in her cage and remind her that I'll call if I need her. Because there's no room for negativity in IMPROV, we call it blocking...there's no time for the mind-numbing analysis that my brain tends to employ itself with, if your stage-partner says you are an overly optimistic coke-dealer then damn it.. y'are. Earlier on, my fantastic instructors would have to literally say to me, "Jill, you ARE an overly flirty engineer...just go with it!" Then something amazing happened and I began to actually go with it, to let the 'crazy' out, to say the things that are generally in my head, assume the part and it felt good.

And the more I did it, I learned some things, that when you get amongst really creative-minded people, it inspires you to do more, to be more. I learned that when you get past race, when you get past politics or all of the outward trappings of looks and gender, people are just...people. That they have the same fears, the same desire for love and acceptance that we all do.

If you spend enough time reading and analyzing all of the news in the world today, you probably wind up throwing up your hands in despair and thinking that there is no hope for humanity, no common ground achievable . Yet every week I see people come together of all different backgrounds, income levels, and personalities to just have fun together.  We work together to achieve success in this field that we love. You learn to see past yourself and that by making someone else look like a rock star....you often end up feeling like a rock star when they return the favor.

While I, in no way, mean this to imply IMPROV can save the world, it has certainly broadened mine. I would not be so bold as to say we all love each other and sit around singing 'Kumbaya' together. However, it's taught me that when you come together for a common purpose and you start from a position of positivity and acceptance, there's very little that you can't achieve.

Or at the very least, I know that the next time I'm called upon to be a germaphobic hooker, I'll kill it.