I laugh a lot. That’s just what I do. Unhappy. Happy. Depressed. Manic. My mood doesn’t seem to matter much – nor does the location or timing of the laughter. Something will tickle me and I’ll laugh without a thought as to how appropriate the laughter is. I can’t help it.
I laughed at my grandmother’s funeral. I was very close to that particular grandmother and truly hurt by her death. But then, during a prayer, I heard my cousin L’s then 8 month old son blow wet raspberries in the back of the chapel. Predictably enough, I started laughing. Oh, I managed to muffle it a bit fairly fast. But then I was left with that silent, shaking laugh people do when they try to keep from drawing attention to their mirth. My cousin T, who was sitting beside me, mistook my shaking shoulders and hand over mouth for tearful distress. So she put her arm around me and patted my back to soothe my obviously ragged nerves.
I never told her that I’d been laughing at the baby blowing wet raspberries.
Now, I told you all of that to tell you this.
Last week, my mother bent over a side table beside the fireplace. Unfortunately, she is the perfect height – her head hit the mantle quite hard. Her noggin made quite a loud *thunk* against the wood. It wasn’t bad enough to bruise, but there was a rather large red dent across her forehead for the incident.
So yeah, I laughed. Oh, I tried really hard not to, but that kind of unintended physical comedy is fairly irresistible to me.
Last night I bent over that same side table beside the fireplace and was reminded abruptly that my mother and I are the same height. I now have the same rather large red dent across my forehead.
And yeah, I laughed my ass off.