Therapeutic laughter is booming. Clubs are springing up all over the world. Are there really health benefits to laughing at nothing?
Christopher George for BuzzFeed
It is 7 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I am sat at my kitchen table in my pyjamas, grumpily. I am on a conference call with approximately five strangers, and we are laughing together. Except we are not all laughing. I am exhaling worriedly, allowing my long breaths to make a hawwwwww sound.
I hate this so much.
I have committed to signing up to a Telephone Laughter Club in the U.K. for a month. It is run by a lovely woman named Lotte, who signs off her emails with "a day without laughter is a day wasted". I sign off my emails with my Twitter handle. The club runs from 7 a.m. to 7:10 a.m. Monday to Friday (or 8 a.m. to 8:10 a.m. on Bank Holidays). It costs 5 pounds a month to join, which pays for the freephone number you have to call.
This weekend, Manchester will host the 3rd annual U.K. National Laughter Festival. Madan Kataria will be the keynote speaker. Kataria (colloquially known as the Guru of Giggling) is the creator of Laughter Yoga. Created in 1995, the practise is a combination of yogic breathing (pranayama), and voluntary laughter. Purely laughter though — no jokes, humour, or comedy. The idea is that your brain doesn't register the difference between fake and real laughter, and it produces the same endorphins regardless, resulting in enhanced well-being. Kataria claims that laughter "helps you to unwind the negative effects of stress, and also boosts your immune system".
There are more than 6,000 Laughter Clubs, in over 60 countries, and a quick search for 'Laughter Yoga London' brings up a group with almost 450 members. If you can't attend a physical Laughter Club, there are Skype Laughter Clubs. Similarly, there are Telephone Laughter Clubs in the U.S., Australia, and the U.K. And look, here we are.
It is the first day of Laughter Month, and I am so nervous. I rise at 6:50 a.m., put the coffee machine on, and sit down at the kitchen table. My boyfriend is asleep next door. Slightly unreasonably, I have forbidden him from entering the kitchen while I am on this call. Brushing the sleep from my eyes, I run through the system in my head. Find the number. Dial in. Greet my fellow laughers. Giggle. Hang up. Have a shower. Go to work. Feel great.
The first hurdle is negotiating the conference call system. Having to enter a pin so early in the morning befuddles me. The system asks me to leave my name, and I mutter 'Ailbhe' passive-aggressively. Abruptly, sounds begin to fade into my ears. Hee heee heeee heee HEEEE HEEEE HEEE HEEE. HO ho HO ho HO ho HO. This is the creepiest thing ever — like a scene from Are You Afraid of the Dark. I was anticipating a gentle introduction, and some hellos. This echo chamber of laughter is overwhelming, so much so that I forget to laugh. Instead, I sit on the line, breathing probably quite loudly, for four minutes. I have become a lurker.
The next day, I have a plan. I will dial in for the final five minutes of the call. I will join the throng of laughter, rather than start it. Ring ring. I try to ignore the guffaw on the other line, and treat the laughter more like breathing than laughter. "I will do this for a minute", I resolve, as I mechanically ha ha ha ha.
Before I notice it, it's been two minutes. My ha ha ha has have become more relaxed. I even genuinely laugh once or twice. On the way to to work, I see a dog peeking its head out of a car window, as if it is navigating. I laugh out loud — not a fnar under my breath. I WhatsApp my friend Muireann, "I do feel more relaxed, I think". "It's like wearing tight shoes", she responds. "You're so tense from listening to the laughter that you immediately feel relaxed afterward." Maybe she has a point. "Or you're just a dope". Oh.
