Feeling Funny Bone-less

 

Earlier this week, a friend sent a text to Mark and me.  She was snarky and I was black-and-white in my stodgy, unappealing response.  So, she answered back: "Sarcasm.  Don't ever forget my sarcastic nature." 

At some point in the last few months, I done broke my funny bone.   

My God.  I might as well have lost both legs, a major organ and my hair. 

I so hanker for a gut-busting laugh these days.  I am deeply hungry for an inane, fart-filled giggle fest in which there is no mention of news or loss or anything at all that is serious and relevant.  I mean, I'm 58 and retired. You'd think I could find irrelevant more easily. 

Instead, I mumble horrible things to Mark while we walk the dog, conjuring imaginary, "Tennis anyone?" Monty Python episodes of a politician's unfortunate downfall.  Sure, we laugh.  But it's a hard laugh, one that has sharp edges and lacks the silliness of my favorite kind of humor.   

I guess I just want to be goofy again. 

Oh, I get close.  

Lately, I've been getting the giggles on the pickleball court, some absurd image flitting through my head while I should be concentrating on the serve.  Really, if it weren't for pickleball--the court filled with my kind and easy-going peeps, all of whom sweat less than I do--I might find myself in a corner, sucking my thumb. 

Humor has served me so well throughout my life--forgiving my adolescent stupidity,  softening the loss of beloved family and friends, providing a much-needed break during cancer treatments.  I'd like to lean on it a little more right now.  

Maybe I should quit the news for awhile and play my music a little louder.  Somehow, I think that'd help my funny bone to heal a bit.  

I always live larger and better when my funny bone is fully functional.