The first person I meet when I walk into the Church of Our Savior in Arlington is Walter. He introduces himself very proudly as the volunteer webmaster. “I like to make funky websites,” he says in a Scandinavian accent. I almost burst out laughing, having seen the amazing ArlingtonLaughterClub.com just a few hours prior to my arrival. Wow, here less than a minute and almost laughing already. This is a good sign.

Walter is arranging garage sale items on cafeteria-style tables at the edge of the room. One of the laugh club ladies has recently moved to Arlington and is giving away what she can’t fit into her new smaller home. I wonder if she moved to be closer to the laugh club. I wonder if her new apartment is really smaller or if it just feels that way because she’s tripled her cat ownership.

I’ve come with lofty goals. My plan is to experience every form of laughter I know of in a single hour at the Arlington Laugh Club. I am going to guffaw. I am going to cackle. I am going to giggle, titter, chortle, chuckle, howl, snicker, and snort. I may even crow.

There are nine people here today including our Certified Laugh Instructor, all of us seated now in a circle of metal folding chairs. The attendance surprises me considering it’s 11:30am on a Monday. We’re given a brief introduction and then asked to say our name, laugh, and then say something about why we’re here. That’s say your name, and then laugh, for no reason at all. Just laugh.

One person says that they’re going through a tough time right now and that they just really need to laugh. One person is using the laugh club to help take her mind off a medical problem. Some are here because they’ve been coming for so long it’s routine.

Walter says his name and then proceeds to fill the next several minutes up with straight laughter. His hands are on his knees and his whole plump upper body is jiggling. He is laughing his ass off! He’ll laugh one way for a while, then switch to another. It’s like he’s giving a laugh concert. His laughter causes a few others to let out their own chuckles, acting as nice triangle notes to his virtuoso performance.

As luck would have it I have to follow Walter. “Hi, my name is Andy.” (pause) “Uhhh. I’m not an overly serious person or anything but I’m not sure I can just laugh without anything to get me started.” I’m smiling hugely though, thinking that this helps make up for my lack of laughter.

The instructor explains that she knows how forced it can feel at first. She tells us that whether the laughter is forced or spontaneous it still triggers the same chemical response in our brain. Our brain doesn’t know the difference so we still benefit from the same positive feelings associated with laughter regardless of why we’re laughing. One laugh clubber says that she too found it very awkward and forced at first but over time got used to it. She says forcing herself to laugh at the club had the effect of allowing her to laugh more easily at socially appropriate times. I don’t feel this really applies to me but it does makes sense.

The rest of the hour is spent doing laugh exercises. We walk around the room with our hands covering our faces and then randomly open them up peek-a-boo style and laugh at the person in front of us. We laugh silently, which makes the room sound like it’s filled with a family of asthmatic sleestacks. We hold our stomachs and belly laugh to an instructed count. (ho, ho, ha, ha, ha.)

To my dismay I am starting to sweat from all of this laughing. This must be due to the boost in circulation laughter is supposed to provide. Other benefits include lower blood pressure and a stronger immune system. Anyway, I’m pissed. I bust my ass on the elliptical machine for 45 minutes at the gym and a few tee-hees is getting my blood all worked up? By this account shouldn’t Santa Claus be all ripped slithering down chimneys in a bright red & white mandex onesie?

Even when I’m not near him during the exercises I can still hear Walter. As kooky as I think Walter is I’m glad he’s here because it’s so much easier to laugh when someone else is laughing and he hasn’t stopped yet. He’s the laugh club equivalent of that friendly extroverted friend of yours that gets you talking to other people at a party.

For the next exercise we walk around the room with our hands up to our ears like telephones. When we encounter a fellow laugh clubber one acts all stern and serious, and instead of reacting in kind the other person just laughs in response. “Your TPS reports were due yesterday, Johnson!” “Haaa haa ha ha!”

I’m completely faking my way through these exercises. I can’t just laugh for no reason. Someone slip on a banana peel. Someone fart, please. Something.

An ex-girlfriend once told me that if I were an animal I would be a turtle. This wasn’t exactly a compliment but it was said in such a sweet “but you’re my little turtle and I love you” way that it took any sting completely out of it.

Well I’m feeling like the turtle right now. These people… I’m sorry but I have significantly stronger social skills than all of these people. But look at them. They’re totally whooping it up. Letting loose. Being in the moment. And I’m just standing here frozen with a big dopey smile on my face. My cheek muscles are starting to ache. What’s my problem? My eyes check the clock on the wall every two minutes hoping we’ll end right on time.

The exercises continue. One involves us walking around like penguins which I don’t quite understand since it doesn’t really involve laughter. I expect Morgan Freeman to bust in and scream, “Just stop it, people!” And then run back outside and be whisked away in a black sedan driven by Ashley Judd.

One exercise has us pretending to conduct an orchestra. Another has us taking a bow and laughing as others applaud us for no reason. At one point we’re in some sort of laughter conga-line and I can feel Walter tickling me from behind. God damnit! No one was supposed to touch me here. Didn’t I suffer enough at the Cuddle Party?

The hour is finally up and as the club winds down Walter reminds us that everything on the tables are free to take. I walk over to the table and I see a lamp shaped like a turtle with a stained-glass mosaic shell. For the first time since my arrival I laugh out loud for real. Heads turns. “Sorry,” I say, realizing how ridiculous it is to apologize for laughing at a laugh club. I palm the turtle and walk out.

He’s my little turtle, and I love him.