Problem Laughter

My addiction to laughter has plagued me all my life. It’s a pox of tee hees and ha has. When I’m happy, I laugh. That’s appropriate. Right? It’s a normal human response to joy and mirth.

However, when nervous, I laugh. Teachers frown on guffaws during finals. And my dad thought I was high when I tittered while telling him that I’d dented the car. I’d been under serious stress at my job as a 911 dispatcher and was yucking it up so hard over it that I lost control of the car and slammed into the plastic clown outside the Circus Burger on Main. I almost peed my pants as the noxiously bright icon toppled and clattered to the pavement.

I also laugh when I’m sad. Funerals are impossible. A real mess. When I go to pay my final respects my eyes well, and I, well, cackle. It’s terribly unbecoming and typically construed as disrespectful. Except at my grandma’s funeral. She had been similarly afflicted and had encouraged her beloved family to smile and laugh rather than weep at her funeral, as a way to honor her memory and influence in their lives. But it was simply unacceptable to her acquaintances.

I recently ran into a man on the street, literally. I was already snickering before I stood up. I started to say, “I can explain...” But he didn’t notice. He was trying to hide his own hilarity. We laughed, together, for a long time, passersby somberly avoiding us.