“It’s times like these,” Teresa said, “when we need to take ourselves less seriously.”
Her face had the expression that a parent might use with a child who had dropped his lollipop on the sidewalk: empathy mixed with buck-up-kiddo. This was a few months ago. I was dejected and over-analytical about the slow demise of a romantic relationship. Over brunch omelets, I related these measly woes. Teresa — a middle-aged friend with an honours degree from the School of Hard Knocks — gazed at me over a fork full of eggs.
“Dude, you need to take an improv class.”
I smiled politely. This was not the advice I needed, thank you very much. I wanted to hear what everyone with a broken heart wants to hear: you’re loveable, you’re not a failure. Instead she suggested that I engage in role-play activities with a bunch of unskilled strangers.
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(Illustration: Chelsea O’Bryne)