Can a belly-laugh save your sanity and help your health? To find out, jazz musician George Washingmachine warms up his laughing gear
"Laugh and the world laughs with you." That's what they say. But for me at the moment it's a case of "laugh and the world stands around gawking at you as if you're a madman". Actually, it's only a couple of workmen in orange vests, but you get my drift.
I can't blame them, really. After all, I'm flapping my arms about like a chook. In a public park. In broad daylight. In the middle of inner-city Sydney. Oh, and did I mention that I am laughing?
That's right, I am smack-bang in the middle of a laughter club. My first. And to make matters worse, I am surrounded by 15 highly experienced hee-hawing health nuts, cackling away as if there is no tomorrow. I feel like I've just stepped onto the set of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
Don't get me wrong, I like a side-splitting joke as much as the next bloke, but this is just plain weird. Surely these people are all stark raving mad?
As it turns out, no. They are part of a growing and international movement of laughter clubs taking the world by storm. At last count, there were more than 3000 clubs around the world full of people determined to laugh themselves silly. (No, I'm not joking).
It all started 11 years ago when Dr Madan Kataria, a cheerful chap from Mumbai, became convinced that the simple act of laughing carried with it many a therapeutic benefit, thanks to the release of feel-good endorphins. So he hot-footed it down to his local park, rounded up a few strangers, and started cracking jokes. All in the name of medicine, you see.
Over time, the crowd grew but the jokes dried up, so the enterprising doc came up with a few joke-less techniques to get the masses laughing again. Inexplicably, the craze caught on and laughter classes began sprouting up all over the globe. Who would have thought that laughter would become such a serious business?
Back at my local club in Newtown, there is one thing starting to bother me (well, aside from the public humiliation). I've learnt over the years, through my own extensive research, that not everyone shares my highly honed sense of humour. So I am beginning to worry. What if I don't find this whole thing funny? I mean, it's not as though you can laugh on cue. Can you?
As it turns out, you can. And that's exactly what the giggle gurus encourage us to do. This is one place, it seems, where faking it is acceptable. Laugh leader Rada Millwood explains: "The body doesn't know the difference between a real and a fake laugh, so endorphins are produced regardless."
To illustrate her point, she leads the class in a bizarre but amusing series of routines with odd names, designed to warm up our laughing gear. A bit like yoga, only without the tights.
To begin, we all stand around in a circle, rhythmically clap our hands and chant, "Ho ho ho, ha ha ha." Apparently this move is designed to get us working together as a group and banish any nerves. (OK... Not working for me just yet.)
Next we launch into a move known as "the evil scientist". One by one, we're required to walk amongst the group, rub our hands together and laugh maniacally – a take-over-the-world kind of cackle, if you will. (I'm not sure whether the nervous laughter I emit at this stage actually counts.)
Then comes "the lawnmower": a few false starts, with actions, and then you're off into a full-throttle laughing fit. Other disturbing routines include "Mr Feathersword" – where you stab someone with your imaginary laughter sword; "the Haka" – think the All Blacks in full flight complete with prodding tongues; and "the fart in a lift" – where we're encouraged to screw up our noses and pretend someone has let a nasty one go with devastating effect, while we're huddled together in a lift. We hold our breath for a while, then run away laughing as hard and heartily as we can. (OK, I admit I find this one funny.)
Despite my reticent start, I'm beginning to enjoy myself and, before I know it, I'm guffawing away like a pro. I even give up worrying about the workmen nearby. Instead I look around me and marvel at how the people in this eclectic group are letting themselves go in such a carefree way. It really is quite liberating. Most of them are regulars, I'm told, so they obviously can't get enough of it.
And that's when I finally figure it out. The appeal of the class is not so much the laughter, but the human connection. After all, what better way to meet people and form a bond than over a good old-fashioned belly-laugh? My theory is only reinforced when I discover they all go out for coffee afterwards.
Driving home after the 30-minute class, I have to say I do feel lighter somehow, and more relaxed. Despite my initial scepticism, I have to admit that laughter clubs are a good way to escape the hurly-burly of everyday life and a wonderful way to meet people. And, best of all, they're free.
As I head into the rest of my day, I'm reminded of an old Yiddish proverb: "Laughter is to the soul what soap is to the body." I can't help but smile. If that's the case, I must smell as fresh as a daisy. |
