Last night, I had an end-of-class improv show.
[Note: If you are one of my friends and wondering "Why didn't she invite me to her show? My feelings are hurt," I will say don't worry -- I didn't invite anyone. My class learned the format of our presentation the week before Thanksgiving, and I was worried that the show might be a cluster-fuck. I didn't need to drag me dear friends to see a disaster. When improv is bad, it is painful to watch.
I asked one of the women in my class if she invited anyone.
"No," she said. "I disinvited people."]
Last night was a learning experience. There were six classes performing, mine was the fifth. The classes before my performance were all great. There was some amazing work--you wouldn't know these people were just students--which made me more nervous. Performing the safe space of the dozen people in the class is one thing. Getting on stage in front of strangers is another.
My class voted that I would be one of the main performers, taking on the story arc of one of the two main characters. The other players have a tough job. Their role is to bring a bold and impressive offer to the main characters.
In my first scene, my scene partner boldly gave my character the name Monica.
My third scene partner boldly gave me a last name Lewinsky.
It was intense.
I remember reading the Starr Report, all of which was published in the NYT in the summer of 1998. I remember working in Washington, D.C. in the winter of 1999, where Monica was hiding out at the Mayflower Hotel, down the street from the much less expensive hotel where I was staying. I wanted to stay at the Mayflower, hang out at the gym, and hope to run into Monica, not for any creepy purposes, but rather I thought "That woman could use a friend." And not some crazy Linda Tripp type. Another young woman who could sit next to her, say nothing, and nod. Everyone has done some crazy shit in their early adult life. Her shit just happened to make American history.
So there I was, playing Monica Lewinsky, on the spot.
And now she has gotten into my head, about how this young woman in her early twenties had a fling with the President. She was besotted with him, and besotted twenty year old take crazy risks. Now her blow jobs are in history books.
When I think about Monica, I think about Hillary. Of course, I have empathy for the wife, but now that I am older and I wiser, I see Bill and Hill as a power couple. I have learned that power couples are more often about power, and less about the couple.
One of the challenges I had as an improviser last night was not trusting my instincts to serve the needs of the story, which is deadly on the stage. The audience was large, and I kept wondering what they would think, what would they want to know. When that happened, I lost my north star. To be fair, my performance was fine. It wasn't terrible, but I could have knocked it out of the park with such rich material and I didn't.
But therein lies the learning. I wouldn't have learned that lesson had I not gone on stage in front of strangers.
