Improvisation

Improvisation

Michelle Albert

One Saturday in early June I was riding my bike through central Boulder when a rainstorm hit. I stood under a tree near the Boulder bandshell to wait it out. As I huddled against the tree trying to stay dry, I watched four young girls, maybe 8-12 years old, splash in the puddles and run around the stadium benches laughing and screaming. They were drenched head to toe. The rain turned to hail, and the girls held their hands over their heads and shouted "Ow! Ow! Ow!" as the hail stung their arms, backs, the tops of their bare feet. I zipped up my jacket, folded my arms around my backpack, and crouched down against the tree trunk, indulging in the illusion that the leaves and branches actually provided shelter. When the storm let up 20 minutes later, I was not only soaked, but I was also covered in leaves, sticks, and cottonwood seeds. As I was about to get back on my bike, one of the girls came up to me.

"Hey," she said. "How come you're still dry?"

"I'm not dry!" I said. "Look how wet my jacket is, and my legs, and my hair." I shook my head and sprayed drops of water all around. She wasn't convinced.

"You're not wet at all," she declared. "You have to get wet. What's the point of standing out in a thunderstorm if you don't get wet? Go jump in that puddle." She pointed to the biggest puddle the girls had been splashing in, a muddy pool on the gravel path in front of us.

I was really tempted. For the past 20 minutes, I'd been watching those girls with envy as they ran in the rain and shouted at the thunder. I was jealous of how much fun they were having, how free and uninhibited they seemed. And now I really wanted to go jump in that puddle. But there were other adults around; I would feel too silly. And besides, I was already uncomfortably wet, and I planned to run errands and go to the gym before biking home, and I hadn't brought a change of socks, not to mention shoes, shorts, or underwear. Unlike the kids, I was old enough to know that jumping in puddles might be fun in the moment, but it leaves you wet and cold and muddy and gross.

"No, thanks," I said to the girl. "I have things to do�." And then I stopped. All the rules for the improvisational comedy I'd been practicing for the past year came flooding back to me. The number one rule: Always say yes. What would I do onstage if a fellow actor told me to jump in a puddle? I would say sure thing, and jump. In improv, you never deny your fellow player. You always accept gifts. You stay in the present moment, play, have fun. You say "yes" to whatever is offered to you, and then add a little something of your own to make the scene move along. The more you let go of any agenda you may have had - and the more risks you take - the better the scene will be.

I changed my tune. "Yes," I said to the girl. "Sure thing. I will go jump in the puddle."

I ran towards the puddle, but then hesitated again. I remembered my agenda: gym, errands, biking home. I thought ahead to the future: I'll be wet, muddy, gross. I stood near the edge of the puddle and tapped one foot lightly on the water, causing a slight ripple in the shallowest part.

The girl booed loudly. "That doesn't count!"

"Okay," I said. "You're right. That was really lame and pathetic." So I jumped in with both feet, dead center, the deepest part. I felt the water splatter around my face, pool up in my socks, drip down the backs of my legs. I laughed and backed up and jumped in again.

"See?" the girl said. "Told you it was fun." She ran off to join her friends, and I, apparently, was free to go. But I had made a huge splash.