I didn’t go to improv class.
Not just that I didn’t go, I couldn’t go. I physically could not make myself go.
My boyfriend ushered me out the door and down the elevator and as soon as I exited my building I had what only could be described as a mental breakdown. And I cried all the way to 77th & Lexington where I then decided to turn around and go home.
It isn’t that I’m afraid of improv, I just don’t know if I’m in a place right now to take three hours out of a Saturday and dick around with a bunch of people that I have zero in common with when I have so many other things to do.
Last week I did not make dinner once. I have not exercised in almost two years, mostly due to lack of time and lack of funds. I am not a runner, I will not run around outside and I’m lazy, so I can’t be trusted to go on a walk and not end up shopping. The apartment I live in, and have lived in for almost 8 months looks like we moved in last month and to add insult to injury, it’s always dirty.
So I couldn’t go. I don’t know why. But I felt like it was a waste of my time. That I wasn’t doing what I should be doing. That to spend three hours doing something utterly ridiculous was absolutely terrible.
I’m not sure if its the actual class or that it is a class and I’m required to do things. I hated school, not because I wasn’t a borderline genius, but because I hated rules and being told when and where I had to do something.
We’ll see if I decide to go next weekend.
In the meantime, I think I should call my doctor and get that xanax…