Today I attended a laughter workshop, well, the first hour of it. Part of the attraction was that it was being run at the Melting Pot, where I rent space to write several days a week, so I knew the venue. I'd looked forward to it, but as I joined the circle of would-be laughers, apprehensive feelings beseiged me and suddenly the prospect of going across the corridor to the main MP room and finding a space to plug in and make notes on the craft of writing was infinitely more appealing. Two and a half hours of learning how to laugh seemed interminable.
Ten minutes of doing so turned out to be a long time. Within a flash, I became uncomfortably aware of how inhibited I can be - not an adjective I normally associate with myself. Perhaps shimmying round the room going 'Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha' and catching the eye of others doing the same was just too much.
I'm well aware of the physical benefits of laughter in addition to the pleasure of actually finding something funny. But forcing myself to laugh made me squirm. It would get easier, I told myself. But it didn't, though everyone else - bar one, who ironically turned out to have been at school with me in prehistoric times - appeared to be having oodles of fun, throwing themselves into each exercise with effort beyond the call of duty, genuinely laughing and triggering all those endorphins or happy juices.
Ten minutes of doing so turned out to be a long time. Within a flash, I became uncomfortably aware of how inhibited I can be - not an adjective I normally associate with myself. Perhaps shimmying round the room going 'Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha' and catching the eye of others doing the same was just too much.
I'm well aware of the physical benefits of laughter in addition to the pleasure of actually finding something funny. But forcing myself to laugh made me squirm. It would get easier, I told myself. But it didn't, though everyone else - bar one, who ironically turned out to have been at school with me in prehistoric times - appeared to be having oodles of fun, throwing themselves into each exercise with effort beyond the call of duty, genuinely laughing and triggering all those endorphins or happy juices.
I'd turned down the chance to go to a previous similar workshop because of a cough. Today I was almost relieved when I found myself coughing more frequently. The perfect excuse for withdrawing at the 3 pm break, and returning to my writing space, however flat the writing might be, however stale I felt at making more notes on incorporating rhythms and patterns into story-writing from my mammoth collection of 'how to' books.
In fact I sneaked out without giving an apology, perhaps worried that doing so might result in further encouragement, possibly some health benefit from spluttering all over people there to laugh, not to witness my lungs attempting to evacuate whatever it is that won't leave them five weeks after my cold arrived.
Of course I'm aware that had I stayed to the end I might already be reaping benefits. I didn't give it its full chance. One of the attendees whose participation was remarkable in its enthusiasm told me this form of therapy had changed his life. Perhaps, though, I expected something more cerebral: the theory of laughter. On further reflection, what might be more helpful to me is attending a workshop on smiling. I'm not big on that. Even my loved ones would describe my face at rest as 'sour' if not actually 'disapproving'. A smiley person is someone you remember. Occasionally I add 'smile more' to my myriad New Year's resolutions. And like the rest of them, I remember for half an hour before the intention floats away.
To move on, the laughter workshop is the second thing I've pulled out of within the course of one week.
In fact I sneaked out without giving an apology, perhaps worried that doing so might result in further encouragement, possibly some health benefit from spluttering all over people there to laugh, not to witness my lungs attempting to evacuate whatever it is that won't leave them five weeks after my cold arrived.
Of course I'm aware that had I stayed to the end I might already be reaping benefits. I didn't give it its full chance. One of the attendees whose participation was remarkable in its enthusiasm told me this form of therapy had changed his life. Perhaps, though, I expected something more cerebral: the theory of laughter. On further reflection, what might be more helpful to me is attending a workshop on smiling. I'm not big on that. Even my loved ones would describe my face at rest as 'sour' if not actually 'disapproving'. A smiley person is someone you remember. Occasionally I add 'smile more' to my myriad New Year's resolutions. And like the rest of them, I remember for half an hour before the intention floats away.
To move on, the laughter workshop is the second thing I've pulled out of within the course of one week.
Last Wednesday I started a silver jewellery making class. Again, within minutes I wondered if I'd made a big mistake. Since enrolling, my life had moved up several gears, what with sorting out care issues for my relative, finding a place to write and a burgeoning determination to use the gym more for workouts, swimming and - when energy and lungs permit - Zumba dancing.
Twenty minutes into the class, I was grappling with the cutest little saw for cutting copper, remembering - and wondering how I could ever have forgotten - how useless I am with my hands. In a moment of courage I confided in the teacher that my drawing hadn't progressed since I was about eight months old, and would I still be able to design wonderful jewellery. She responded with ideas but in my typical paranoid way, I thought her face registered extreme dismay. No doubt there's always one student in every class who proves to be a total pain. And already I had that role covered.
So I managed to get a rebate, more or less telling the truth about why I was pulling out, and decided that I could buy the jewellery I love (my tastes aren't expensive) rather than put pressure on my hands to summon up the required manual skills. To dissipate any residual guilt at having been somewhat economical with the truth when giving a reason for not retuning to the class, I think of the smile on the teacher's face when she realises she won't have to deal with me again.
Twenty minutes into the class, I was grappling with the cutest little saw for cutting copper, remembering - and wondering how I could ever have forgotten - how useless I am with my hands. In a moment of courage I confided in the teacher that my drawing hadn't progressed since I was about eight months old, and would I still be able to design wonderful jewellery. She responded with ideas but in my typical paranoid way, I thought her face registered extreme dismay. No doubt there's always one student in every class who proves to be a total pain. And already I had that role covered.
So I managed to get a rebate, more or less telling the truth about why I was pulling out, and decided that I could buy the jewellery I love (my tastes aren't expensive) rather than put pressure on my hands to summon up the required manual skills. To dissipate any residual guilt at having been somewhat economical with the truth when giving a reason for not retuning to the class, I think of the smile on the teacher's face when she realises she won't have to deal with me again.
I don't like pulling out of things. I am a finisher. I could have laughed/coughed for another 90 minutes this afternoon. I could have persevered with making jewellery. I guess I'm just aware of how precious time is and of the desire to use it on pleasurable things as much as possible.
Explanationally yours
Jane
Interesting little fact -- just as happiness makes us smile, smiling can make us feel happier. So a 'forced' smile now and again isn't as phony as people think. And it's much easier on the nerves than a laughter workshop. :-)
ReplyDeleteThanks for this. I'll start practising now!
ReplyDeleteLillias