Excerpts from 'Me, But Better: Transforming Personality through Science'

Olga Khazan, a writer for The Atlantic, embarked on a journey to alter her personality aspects she found undesirable. As a self-proclaimed introvert, Khazan chose to step out of her comfort zone and meticulously recorded her adventure in her latest book. One of her significant challenges: confronting her social anxiety by enrolling in an improvisational comedy class. What transpired?

The initial steps to embrace extroversion were taken in solitude, as I found myself watching an improv show on Netflix one evening. The episode kicked off with actors Thomas Middleditch and Ben Schwartz creatively extracting a scene premise from a random audience member—a photography intern. On an empty stage, Middleditch mimicked an interview with Schwartz, who was instructed to 'embody a gazelle' among other odd tasks.

While this entertained the audience, it served as a reminder of my looming expense report. I shared in the performers' discomfort, thinking how the audience could easily turn unkind. Why didn’t they prepare better material beforehand? Worse still, I knew I would soon be in their shoes, but without any comedic fame to fall back on.

For this endeavor of transforming my personality, I concentrated on each of the five major traits consecutively for several months, beginning with extroversion. Over the years, I had slipped into a lifestyle I wasn't fond of—endless cycles of work and television. My husband and I planned to relocate soon, yet I realized I would have lived in and left my residence without knowing my neighbors. A quiz in a self-help book revealed that I classified as having 'high loneliness.'

Evidently, 'very low' extroversion scores were no surprise to acquaintances. My friend Anastasia once threatened to end our friendship if I skipped a social event. My extreme introversion occasionally morphed into isolation. My job's demands could fill every waking hour, which sometimes felt like a blessing due to my lack of hobbies or friends. Yet, this absence of social interaction was destabilizing in itself.

Out of all personality traits, changing extroversion seemed most straightforward: engage with people. Expertise wasn't required to start; declaring oneself an extrovert was unnecessary. Just show up, people will find you. Similarly, this principle underpins improv comedy: speak up, declare anything! Known as 'improvisational theater,' improv entails performers stepping onto a stage without premeditated lines or actions, reacting spontaneously—a practice termed 'yes, and.'

In my quest to enforce an extroverted lifestyle, I needed a commitment device—something that required my presence and encouraged social involvement. Opting for improv seemed akin to diving into an ocean of extroversion.

Rich observed me signing up for classes at Dojo Comedy, a quaint D.C. improv establishment with a whimsical logo. 'You in improv is akin to Larry David trying ice hockey,' he mused.

Indeed, my usual demeanor is more 'actually, no' than 'yes, and.' Never an admirer of improv, I find it lacking humor—a perpetually insider joke I don't grasp. My foray into improv didn't warm me to the idea; it only amplified my hesitations.

When the time for my first class approached, I picked a non-descriptive black T-shirt and jeans, hoping to blend in. Memories of timidly participating in middle school drama classes resurfaced—I once understudied for Bob Cratchit's daughter's unremarkable role. The unexpected traffic, as indicated by my phone, provided me a momentary reprieve.

The class convened in an antiquated townhouse adorned inexplicably with numerous elephant sculptures. Six beginners, including myself, occupied funeral-esque chairs in a circle.

Led by a brisk young instructor, we introduced our improv backgrounds—mine being nonexistent. Another participant brazenly recited an extensive list of her previous classes, causing me to inwardly question who had the least experience. It was me, unsurprisingly.

As we began, I silently wished for an impromptu escape route involving a nearby elephant. Instead, I joined my fellow novices—ranging from a software engineer to someone who worked on Capitol Hill—in warm-up exercises. These games were mere preludes to 'scene work,' our unscripted practice.

Our initial foray involved the improv staple, 'Zip Zap Zop,' where we zapped energy beams while passing 'Zip,' 'Zap,' and 'Zop' between participants. The goal was to maintain rhythm and focus, despite distractions.

Struggles abounded: I hadn’t mingled in public since the pandemic’s onset. My poor reflexes added to the challenge, and masks made it difficult to detect when someone was about to 'Zop' me, revealed only by their eye angle.

Errors in sequence led us all to pause, clap, and exclaim, 'yay!' adopting an improv mindset of celebrating mistakes—a hallmark ethos. This spirit starkly contrasted with my profession, where blunders can cost jobs. It felt rehabilitative for those obsessed with flawlessness.

Subsequently, we pantomimed exchanging invisible objects, even referring to one, embarrassingly, as an 'invisible ball!' Although apprehensive, everyone in D.C. seems to conceal authentic emotions beneath a veil of ambition. We conformed to absurdity, envisioning peers drafting serious work emails the next day after juggling imaginary props.

Eventually, I beckoned an imaginary hawk to perch on my arm, relieved that no passersby could witness our antics through shuttered blinds.