These are words that, outside of an improv crowd, have never been used to describe me.
Inside an improv crowd, the terms are aimed at me either as reassurance for my insecurities (“I’m not funny, boo hoo!”/”Yes you are, you’re funny, shut up”) or part of a collective referral— the coach/teacher will say something like “You’re all jokesters, but…”
…And I tune out the rest of the sentence, because I’m busy thinking, “Wait, what? I’m part of this group. Am I a jokester? Me? No way. Really?”
It’s jarring to hear the term associated with me, even indirectly, because it is not part of my self-identity yet.
This is kind of how I felt when I started running, too. After three years, I finally began referring to myself as “a runner” this past year. It took three age group race awards before I decided I had earned some rights.
Adulthood, too. Nobody feels like “an adult” when they turn 18, and I think most of us spend the next 10 years coming to terms with that word. “Adult.” Ick.
Or it’s like the fat kid who got skinny and still thinks of himself as “fat.”
You get my point.
Things take a while to mentally readjust, I guess.