Saturday, I awoke to a phone full of tornado watch alerts, wondering if it would be wise to try to drive to the first day of my “improv for anxiety” class. This was the first joke of the day, the universe daring a bunch of anxious people to drive in a monsoon of rain in order to toss imaginary objects around a room. I’m happy to report that almost every one of us made it, the only missing person being one lady’s husband who had gotten stuck in Florida because of the storm.

The class is specifically designed for people with anxiety, so in addition to our teacher, we had a licensed therapist sitting in, largely to interject with tips on how to implement improv techniques in our lives as anxious people. Also, we had to fill out a couple sheets of paper where we circled numbers rating our fear and avoidance of certain situations, like “calling a stranger on the phone,” “giving a presentation at work,” “talking to high-ranking people at work,” and “giving a speech.” 2/3, 3/2, 3/3, and 1/1 for me, if you’re curious.

I think the difference in my numbers is in the opportunity to prepare. I’m totally fine with giving speeches and writing papers because I get plenty of time to know what to say, but if I’ve planned out a phone call only to be confronted by someone’s voicemail, you can bet that I’m going to hang up and just try again later. When I do end up in a situation where I have to improvise what to say, I get anxious, and that manifests as being really negative. I end up coming away from the interaction feeling like people think I’m terrible, which of course makes me want to avoid similar situations in the future. It is as charming as it is helpful, I can assure you.

My fear toward (and suckiness at) improvising is exactly why I signed up for this class. Why take a class in something that comes naturally to you? Sure, I could take a class in being a snarky dick, and probably be valedictorian, but I wouldn’t learn anything, and “snarky dickery” isn’t exactly a useful life skill, no matter what the internet would have you believe.

We did a few exercises where we stood in a circle and tossed imaginary energy around, repeated each other’s names, or tossed a series of objects, for which we would thank the sender. This was a fun and relaxing way to get everyone to loosen up a bit after a stressful drive to class. Then, we did some exercises where we broke off into groups of two and pretended to reminisce about an invented shared memory, using a random word tossed out by our teacher. Surveillance! Snow storm! Sail boat!

I can’t speak for everyone in the class, but I’m willing to bet that I wasn’t the only person in the room wondering if I was doing a good job. Is this right? Am I drawing from personal experience too much? Did that line even make sense? Did it even make sense to me? What was I even talking about? But since the only criteria of doing a “good” job was being “good” at the game, the only way to do a good job was really just to be a good partner. So, was I being a good partner?

Sometimes? Maybe a little? I have no idea?

The hardest thing about the improv class isn’t wondering whether you’re doing a good job or being funny or “doing it right” or making a fool of yourself, because all of those concepts are thrown out the window fairly immediately. So then you worry about whether you’re being a good partner to the person you’re with, and then you realize that you’re probably not, but of course you kind of suck because you’ve only been doing this for an hour and maybe you should cut yourself some slack and stop trying to over-analyze everything all the time. And ha, ha, isn’t that why we’re all here? Just me? OK.

When class was over, I felt weirdly tired, like I had nothing else left in me and no desire to do anything for the rest of the day, even though it was only noon. But it was still pouring down rain, and Pixie had spent the previous night alternating between meowing loudly and walking on me, and I had already passed my goal of 4 workouts per week. Also, of course I was tired: I had a nerve-wracking drive that involved me having to get off the highway and sit in a gas station parking lot until the rain let up enough for me to see. I had spent the morning interacting with 10 new strangers, pantomiming, and trying to learn a new thing that I was 98% sure wouldn’t just come naturally to me. I skipped the gym, took a long bath, ate a huge sandwich, and then watched a bunch of trashy true crime stuff on Netflix.

So, was it fun? Yes. Was it hard? Kind of, yeah. Did I learn things? Definitely. Was I a good partner? I have no freaking idea.