Lightening Up

Four of the six…my original buddies in laughter. (That’s me to the left, dapper in my saddle shoes.)

"I'd rather be funny than beautiful," said my long-ago friend Barbara, who happened to be both. And I definitely see her point, for humor lasts while beauty doesn't, and it is well known that the ability to laugh is a valuable survival skill. I truly envy people who are quick with a quip, can remember a joke, and possess the gift of levity.

As for me, I tend to veer toward earnest and intense, and when I am funny, it is often unintentional...the comic relief of a teacher tripping on her shoe lace in front of the entire school population, or a job applicant who looks down at the conclusion of an interview to discover her blouse has been unbuttoned throughout the process and of course the bra is an odd color and one strap is secured with a safety pin. (Yes, both of those things have happened to me.) 

But I don't mind being clown-like in that way. I think the ability to recognize one's own ridiculousness is an essential and endearing quality, and if I can be of service by generating some affectionate laughter at my own expense, it's fine. There are worse things than being silly and shallow.

It would be nice to have more finesse in the humor department, though. Rather than making myself the object of the joke, I wish I could readily summon up the wit and perceptiveness to comment wryly on the folly around me while it's happening, and inspire some enlightened laughter.

I suppose the source of my awkwardness here may be the lack of lightness in my home growing up. Adults modeled drama, seldom humor, and the only giggles were those shared among the siblings. My brother Eddie's comic antics could make me laugh uncontrollably, and my sister Marlene always managed to perceive and articulate a certain hilarity in the ongoing craziness, even when it was sad, a quality that undoubtedly helped her to endure a lot of disappointment and physical suffering. She and I shared the laughter of perfect understanding sometimes, a language that needed no translation, and I miss that to this day.

Yes, once upon a time, there were six of us kids, but both Marlene and Eddie, the ones with whom I laughed the most, had congenital kidney disease and died young, and it’s hard to overcome the heaviness that inhabits my heart. Losing a sibling brings on a special kind of pain—it’s the cruel excision of a piece of personal history, the tearing away of a portion of one’s very soul, and that feeling never entirely goes away. So forgive my fundamental lack of merriment.

“But you are funny,” my dear husband insists. “You’re one of the funniest people I know!” Again, it’s probably inadvertent clown behavior, clumsiness exacerbated by a surgery two years ago that took away a balance nerve and the hearing in one ear. Or maybe it’s my blunt honesty, because the surgery also seems to have left me without a filter, and I tend to say whatever I’m thinking at the time, and occasionally these comments come across as cheeky insights, veering on outrageous, and even, dare I say, humorous. They certainly have been known to elicit laughter.

Then there are my girlfriends. I cherish them for many reasons, but lately our laughter is one of the most important. It seems life-sustaining. We check in with each other daily for a cleansing vent, and inevitably the wisecracks fly and we feel understood and less alone—and fortified, I think.

And as we know, the world is in a very bad way right now, so some hand-wringing and anxiety are reflexive, but futile. I’m working on this. I realize that I must do more than fret. And lightening up does not mean taking things less seriously, or hysterical giggles as we slide into our demise, but I can truly see that there is something defiant and cathartic and clarifying about finding what’s funny. I thank the universe for the satirists and comedians who are leading their own form of comic resistance…people like Randy Rainbow, Stephen Colbert, and Samantha Bee, to name just a few. I’m also grateful for perpetually exuberant dogs, and for the gang of six wild turkeys parading around in the orchard, ridiculous and clueless, and our little neighbor girl Etta, with her impulsive costume changes and spontaneous dances with sunlight.

As Mark Twain said: “The human race has only one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.”

It’s a good way to fight, and as has often been pointed out, it is closely aligned with pain, but when it fleetingly prevails, it also feels a lot like joy.