For the most part, laughter is good, welcome, wonderful. Laughing is good for the body—it shakes up your internal organs. It’s good for the environment—a lone laugher can stir an entire busload of strangers into a guffawing fit. We can assume it’s good for the soul. Although, I suppose that could be argued who can prove it? So, when is laughter not good? It’s not good when one—okay, I confess, I’m talking about myself here—has a weird sense of humor (apparently.)
I can’t crack a smile at slap stick humor. Practical jokes annoy me. I cringe at the videos of people or animals caught in acts where they barely escape something dangerous or painful. But, just let someone drop a sloppy, gooey, cheese-covered, full-on lettuce, tomato, onion Burger King hamburger in the middle of his lap, in the middle of the parking lot, in his new, spanking clean truck and I’m off. Fits of snorting, hooting, hand-covering-mouth, clutching stomach, rocking laughter.
“Mom. It’s not funny.”
Snort, snort. “I know. But”—snort, hoot, wipe eyes—“it will be. Some day”—guffaw, snort, rock wildly holding stomach—“you’ll laugh about this.” I wave a limp hand at the ketchup sprayed on the dashboard, pick up a wad of mushy lettuce and a glob of cheesy bun, slop it onto the limp, tattered, cardboard tray. There are two of us in the truck and it’s clear from the look on his scowling face, I’m the only one who is remotely amused. He’s swiping at the slimy globs of goo with the one tissue-paper thin, gum-wrapper sized napkin so generously included with his burger. My napkin is beyond use from wiping my eyes. Hoot. Hoot. Snort. Rock wildly, kick feet. Hand fisted into my mouth to keep myself from laughing. Useless. Laughing so hard, I can’t get my breath. “I’m not laughing”—snort, hoot—"at you.”
“Mom.”
“I know. I know. It’s not funny.” Snort, hoot. “But it will be.” Ha ha ha. “Some day. You’ll laugh about this.”
It’s been four years. I still laugh about it. I don’t dare ask if he thinks it’s funny, yet.
Some day …
