I had fun overall, and some of the sets went really well. But so many of my scenes were slow, dull, and awkward. I did scenes with other improvisers I normally have a strong rapport with, and they dragged. Painfully so.
Most of my ideas went nowhere, and repeatedly improvisers had to jump in from the back line to save things. There were also multiple scenes where I stood there adding absolutely nothing as the action went on around me. For much of the afternoon, I was the most utterly out-of-place and useless I had ever been on an improv stage.
...until the very next night.
On Sunday night my troupe had a performance. And I added not one iota of value. Okay, that's an exaggeration; I added exactly one iota: my very last line got some laughs. But the rest of the time I was on a different wavelength from the other members of my team, and I contributed nothing. Everything I said fell flat. I spent much of our final set hugging the back line, uncompelled to join the fray. I may be a seasoned improviser, but my work that night was bland and unpalatable.
Luckily, the rest of my troupe was too busy putting on a stellar show, so they didn't notice my absence. Or at least, they were kind enough not to say anything about it.
But improv wasn't the only thing going on last weekend. On Saturday, we had six showings at our old house, some no more than 15 minutes apart. Six. Even though it's been on the market since June.
Oh yeah, and we got an offer. (Huzzah!)
We're not in full-on celebration mode yet, of course (Huzzah?!), since we know how the last two went. But we feel pretty good about this one. For one thing, the buyer doesn't have an FHA loan. Perhaps third time will indeed be the charm.
Fingers crossed. And just to be safe, I'm crossing the streams, too.
But improv and realty weren't the only things going on last weekend. I was also, apparently, in the beginning stages of the flu.
I've never had a flu shot as an adult, in part because I'd never before gotten the flu, at least as far as I can remember. Well, that streak's toast.
But let me tell you, when it's 80 degrees out in early March in New England, and the sun is beating down on you, and you're wrapping your winter coat more tightly around you and shivering non-stop...
Yeah. Good times.