My coworkers expressed some concern over my new endeavor.

I thought an acting class would certainly be a learning experience, would probably be entertaining and possibly cathartic.

But drama, it seems, is already an adjective ascribed to me - and not in the Shakespearean theater kind of way. It's more of a loudly animated, talkative, storytelling (with details exaggerated for effect) kind of drama.

"What are you going to be like AFTER the class?" my colleague asked with a nervous laugh.

I did my best to allay the worry: "Who knows, this class could be therapeutic. I'll probably come in the next morning mellower than ever." I only half believed it myself.

In all honesty, I have no desire to be an actor. I'll leave that to people who love the stage and who can cry on command. But I've been on this "try new things" kick for over a year now and acting is something I haven't tried yet.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do have some theater experience.

Back in elementary school I took a drama class through the local park district. We staged a brilliant performance of "The Giving Tree" in which I was chosen to play the role of the stump.

Laugh if you will, but scholars agree that The Stump is the most dynamic and significant role in the short production and actors selected to play the part are clearly destined for greatness.

Or maybe I just made that up to make myself feel better. I mean, I played a stump. And I looked like a boy. But at least my snow boots were awesome.

Clearly I still have to work on that long-buried hostility. This acting class might be just thing thing to flush some of it out.

Last night was the first session of Acting for Ordinary People at Acorn Productions. We gathered in an airy studio room at the Dana Warp Mill in Westbrook, made introductions and laughed uncomfortably for the first few minutes.

But acting teacher Rachel Flehinger was quick to get us standing up and started on an exercise.

First things first, we need to learn names. So Rachel pointed, we spoke our name. At her instruction we also shouted it or whispered it. (Some had trouble speaking up. I had trouble speaking down.)

We spoke each other's names (yelled them, whispered them) and Rachel got a rhythm going that - if perfected - would run Stomp out of business.

We moved on to a game called "passing the zop." With a step forward, a clap of the hands and a point, we passed an ethereal "zop" back and forth to each other. Child's play, right?

Then Teacher Rachel added a "zap." We needed to pay attention to two words flying around the room - and we couldn't do it.

"Congratulations on failing!" Rachel cheered. "Go slower this time."

We still couldn't do it. The zap kept getting lost somewhere. So Rachel added a "zowie." I think you can guess what happened.

We eventually made headway with passing the zap (thanks to the introduction of props) and discovered the art of making sure the other person is "ready to receive" what you're trying to give them. Simply shouting across the room proved ineffective.

Ah, learning.

The next exercise was a practice in discomfort. We individually stood up, took a deep breath, looked each audience member in the eye and then finished the sentence, "The truth about me is..."

I'm a chatterbox by nature, and in front of a group of strangers I tend to launch into a speedy, breathless, one-sided discourse. It wasn't easy to take that breath. And it wasn't easy to look every one in the eye.

We all seemed to crack a joke when we first stood up - that innate response to break the nervous tension. I did too. It's a habit. I guess that's the one big learning I'd like to take away from this class. Let me be able to speak seriously (just every now and then).

On the way out the door we were given homework: Find a modern monologue and memorize it "as much as possible" for next class. No problem.

Stardom, here I come.

And no, I'm not telling you what the truth about me is.