My husband told me a joke, I did not laugh.
My husband is always telling jokes I miss the humor in. So instead of laughing, I sit considering, philosophizing and writing about it – well that is what writers do!
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Likewise, if I hear a joke and do not laugh, not even giggle, nor grin, is it still a joke? At least in my world? It may be a joke in someone else’s world, but if it elicits only groans and some kind of inner barf reaction in my funny bone, is it still a joke in my world?
As I sit considering these questions carefully, I think that someone might consider it a joke that I am even contemplating the value of what I consider a non-joke. I think I might agree. But, nonetheless, my mind has grasped this as a worthy dilemma and is not ready to send it to the grave of passing thoughts just yet. So, that fact alone, I suppose, would give the joke value - but not as intended.
For the joke did not stimulate the humor core of me, but instead tickled the speculative membrane of my reasoning – you know the shallow area. And tickled was a bad verb choice wasn’t it – as tickled implies some kind of giggle sensation.
It’s funny really, that a non-joke would evoke such seriously silly thoughts from me and that’s a paradox of paramount importance to some region of my brain right now – an area that actually might be too close to the gutter area for comfort! But I’ll not discuss the anatomy of my mind and the alleyways within, for that could be a whole other article that could easily turn into a big joke of its own!
I try and pretend not to notice how easily my mind can slip from inspiration to idiocy as I continue to analyze the joke (or lack thereof). I have laughed at my husband’s jokes in the past, when I didn’t think them funny. Why? And why not now? Have I suddenly developed a joke conscience? Am I suddenly afraid that laughing at a non-joke is really a lie God will punish me for?
I am pondering this when hubby walks in and asks what I am writing. No joke. I am busted. Unless I can throw him off. So I clear my throat and say ever so sweetly “Oh just journaling some of my inner fussing – really about junk as pointless as the conversation of a room full of Professors discussing evolution!”
Maybe junk and pointless wasn’t my best choice of words, I think as he bends over my shoulder, looks closer and then points to husband’s jokes boldly staring at us from the computer screen. Why didn’t I just say it was much ado about nothing, I’m sure he would have run from a Shakespearean explanation - he hates Shakespeare, something about nightmares and English literature - I can’t relate - I love English literature but point is, I didn’t use it to my advantage here - NO sir - instead I had to rouse his curiosity at me writing pointless junk! Joke’s on me.
My comic tragedy cometh forth, I think, as I silently and with dread print out the previous paragraphs and hand it to him. As he stands attentively reading, I think I would rather be hearing one of his jokes. Why not - I am inwardly groaning now anyway!
I am ready to hit delete and repent to him and God for being such a bad-joke wife when he hands it back to me with deadpan expression and voice saying, “Not some of your better writing, that’s for sure.”
“Hey”, I call after him as he’s leaving the room, “can I help it if YOU have no sense of humor!”
But you do don’t you God, You love putting opposites together - and I hear you laughing God, even if it is in that still small voice of yours!
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