I want to be funny. Geniunely funny. I’m not even asking for “pee in your pants” funny, or “soda spraying from the nose” funny, or “raw, Jenny McCarthy” funny. I would happily and humbly settle for “chin resting on the palm while reading blogs and chuckling” funny. Of even simple “eyes smiling so you know it’s for real” funny. Honestly, my 7 month old daughter’s poo is funnier than me. And the thing is, I have some dang funny pals. You’d think their humor would rub off on me… Jeanette is honest “why didn’t I think of that” funny. Theresa is “holy cow, I can’t believe that happened to you” funny (just ask her about her mascara under the boobs story). Haley is “small town girl meets raunchy chic” funny. Kimmy is “animated use of old school phrases” funny. Aaron is “unique analogy/story telling” funny.
Me, well, I’m just too serious. I feel the world so intensly and haven’t found the ability to translate that into funny just yet. You see, everyone loves funny people. Everyone finds a way to somehow relate to them. I am certain, too, that the release of endorphins during a laughing fit helps as well.
Us serious folks just don’t get the luxury of watching people have the same endorphin high reaction to our stories, our writing, and our musings. See, I used the word musings. Funny people wouldn’t use that word. Instead they would probably use a more fitting, funny word like “crap” or “psycho babble”. Not that funny people are crappy or psycho, although many are blessed with the gift of babble.
I read Jeanette’s blog about finding a fitting, flattering, practical, perhaps sexy nursing bra and I laugh out loud because I know exactly how she feels. Funny people like her must have a great memory because they write about those everyday things that slip right past the brain of us more austere humans. I mean, I experience hilarious things in life every day. But after the endorphins fade, I go about my day and the next thing I know I’m scrubbing homemade baby food off the carpet, polishing off a box of day old E.L. fudge cookies, and repositioning my nursing pads in preparation for bed. In a nutshell, my brain is exausted and I’ve long forgotten how the seriously large, middle aged woman with incredibly teased bleach blond hair and RuPaul-esque makeup sporting a “Big Dog” sweatshirt working the local bagel shop was really a funny sight.
No one giggles about the emotional pain and suffering of a C-section. People rarely laugh out loud about my passion for homebirth and midwifery and a woman’s right to birth safely in the place of her choice. Granted, homebirth can be funny! Yes, hearing my midwife recount the tale of how she thought she was sticking her finger in Kaia’s mouth during my breech-discovering exam was sincerly funny. Listening as she went on to describe her daughter’s wide-eyed expressions as she told the story to them was even better. Surely funny things happen under seemingly serious conditions, but alas, my skills at capturing them in a quirky, funny way is nil.
Bloggers of the world, I beckon you to bestow even a moment of your funniness on me. Give me a few hints, inside tips. Help me sprinkle some laughter into my weighty blogs. I promise to try and use them. Universe, this is my invocation of funniness.
Well, the good news is I think that my burning desire to be funny is reflective of my journey of healing from Kaia’s birth. I am on the path and I’ve already taken those serious, painful turns in the road. Now, as the emotional scars fade just a teeny bit, it’s time for some laughter on the next leg of my adventure.
Even the closing couldn’t end on a funny note. See, I told you…I’m just not funny.