A college friend e-mailed, “Where did you lose your sense of humor?”
I was working on a blog entry, and I stopped to read over what I’d written—a page of nearly autistic hand-wringing over matters that might, only might, deserve a shrug.
Where IS my sense of humor? And how is it that I haven’t missed it?
At first, I thought I might be missing people who think I’m funny. With the smallest opening, I told myself, maybe my wit would still be rapier-like. Sure, I can’t think of anything that would make anyone laugh right now, but how could I be expected to be funny in this darkened room of virtual strangers?…if there is anyone in this room at all.
I’d rather not believe nothing seems funny to me. The college friend I’ve mentioned had a friend with a quip for every occasion. It seemed he visited the library and memorized the”roast master” series my seventh grade speech teacher foisted on me. Truth is, he was funny—he knew just when to apply his knowledge, and his timing was impeccable. In the four years I knew him, however, he never said a funny word that was his own. He was the worst of performers. As polished as he was, in getting laughs from Woody Allen and Steve Martin, he was playing someone other than himself, cheating.
Above cheating, I sit waiting for the absurd inspiration. Perhaps it is my age, my job, my weighty responsibility, but the ridiculous rarely strikes me the way it once did. Look at me now—wringing my hands over not being funny. Humor is subversive, and I have become worthy of subversion.
In my first job out of school I worked with a colleague who’d been laboring for 35 years. She and I were the first to arrive each day and shared some silent time before anyone else turned up. She was full of military discipline—she had been in the military, actually, and cracked codes in WWII. I appreciated her seriousness, but her “Good Morning” set off the imp in me. My first thought was what I might do to get her fired.
My elaborate plan—never carried out of course—was to respond to her “Good Morning” with a suitably bizarre statement. “Good morning, Helen!” I’d say, “I’m wearing a wetsuit under my clothes,” or “Good morning. Oh, Helen, have you seen a horsy-head floatation ring around here?”
Later I’d protest, “What did she say I said?” and circle my ear with my index finger in the universal sign for “gone.”
Now I imagine people playing this joke on me…and getting away with it. I can imagine being gone a few weeks later. In my memory, I am still the funny person my college friend recollects, ripe for anarchy and mayhem, but my once incendiary urge for subversion gutters like a short wick in sea of wax.
I’m full of stock phrases, rehearsed stories, and worn witticisms—just the sort of humor you’d expect from your father. Somehow I’ve got to stop imitating myself and see the absurd world again.
Filed under: Life, Thoughts, Uncategorized
