As we prepare for an upcoming show, Legends, I find myself in a strange dejavu situation. Ten years ago I was sitting around with the same group of guys, hashing out ideas, coming up with funny bits, and generally laughing my ass off. At the time I was still coming into my own as the resident ‘funny lady’ who performed monologues, choreographed bits, and played all the resident female characters. I was 20, in college, wearing wing tips, dancing 5 days a week, eating bologna sandwiches daily, drinking amaretto sours nightly, having my long hair cut at Super Cuts, and selfish. I was horribly miserable in my personal life but a shining star in my rising performance career. I easily fell into being ‘one of the guys,’ and while I didn’t smoke copious amount of motivational weed, was kinda naive, and wasn’t as witty as everyone else, I still managed to hang in there and hold my own.

Flash forward 10 years later and here I am at 30: Living in the hood, drinking wine nightly, a salon cuts my hair, I am married, healthier, wiser, older…old. As I pleasantly look around the comedic round table (we’re rehearsing every night this week) I notice there is a different tension in the room; when we were young the air was filled with possibility: maybe we would be big, maybe the audience would give us the love we needed, maybe we would all hook up…Cut to us ten years later and we’re more seasoned: We all hold day jobs, own plain wardrobes, and skilfully balance various romantic entanglements–oh, and my marriage is always hovering around.

Unlike when I was 20, I’ve now spent years living in the company of a man. The male mystery of bodily functions, 45 minute bathroom sessions, and bizarre eating habits has long been revealed. Spending time with Josh’s friends from elementary school has also wizened me up in the ways of male banter. I’m perfectly capable of holding my own when the conversation steers itself into the toilet. Why, just the other night I learned about the bowel movements of two of my cast mates (every other day for one and every 3 days for the other–like clockwork). I also heard myself say, “You know, Dave, with the reference to the class of ‘96 in your monologue you’ve left yourself wide open for a 69 joke.”

However, the old gang is still just as motivated as always to crank out the funniest product they can. I’m amazed at how good these guys have gotten, turning comedy into a science–from every beat to making sure the lines are perfectly delivered–my cast mates have it DOWN. While the vibe is not as loose and relaxed as the last Legends show, there is nothing but positive, successful, feedback. These guys mean business, and now that we’re more secure in our lives, we have the focus to do it.

Typically, when you sit around with other actors you eventually have a little stage show where everyone tries to impress one another. With comics specifically it becomes a game to see who can out-humor the other–this is especially apparent in my recent meetings with the improv company I’m now a member of. Everyone (all the guys) compete to see who can be the funniest, the one with the most riffs on one topic, the one with the biggest belly laughs from their constitutes. I find myself chuckling along but inwardly rolling my eyes as I watch yet another game of machismo unfurls before my eyes.

This is also coming off a six week run where the entire cast of improvisers were women. I found there to be little to no showboating during the rehearsal process or the performances. We simply related differently. Instead of launching into a big masquerade ball we would eagerly ask each other how our week went, if coughing matched recent flu symptoms, and the state of the weather. I’m not saying we didn’t compete at all, the cast was full of its own quirks (i.e. she’s bringing in negative energy, we have no sound operator tonight and that means the theater doesn’t love us, etc.) However, the tone was definitely mellower.

I used to feel the need to be just as witty, funny, and competitive as the next performer but now I feel it’s fine to opt out. I’m more secure with myself, not feeling the need to constantly prove something to everyone: I’m funny! I really am! Well, that’s a lie, I certainly do still worry about being I’m funny–hence I’m committed to nothing but comedic performances in the future. I also think that there is validity in being firm and not allowing oneself to be pushed around. It took years of being in the service industry for me to recognize my voice and my ability to stand up for myself (the customer is NOT always right). As improvisers you need to have the confidence to take the stage, end someone else’s scene (editing), and not feel like you’re constantly being stepped on–or over. I think my early years in an all male comedy troupe really helped me learn this.

As I look around the table, I can appreciate the process more, plus my personal life no longer distracts me. Being a performer is exhausting work, and while my marriage wouldn’t be considered ‘exciting’, I prefer it that way. At 30, It’s a lot easier knowing whose waiting for me at the end of day then at 20 when I was just hoping someone would walk me home.