Constance thought I was hysterically funny. I had those jokes I would do where I would inhale loudly while throwing my head back as if the world’s largest sneeze was coming. I would huff and I would puff and then when it was time to sneeze, I would say “chew!” while blowing a big gust of air on her face. She’d clap and laugh riotously. This was one of her favorites and I used it often.
Conversely, the morning I turned on her bedroom light and yelled, “Oh no, the sun!” was only funny to her once. After that, she hated it and so I retired that little gem.
Before Constance passed, nearly no one got my sense of humor. My comedy was for a small group of people who had grown accustomed to it over many years. If you weren’t in that good friend circle, then you would probably be more perplexed than entertained. Since Constance passed, I’ve stopped refraining from only making stupid jokes to my friends and have started making them everywhere. No additional people are getting the jokes but it is entertaining me more.
Case in point, I was at work meeting at a private club yesterday. My colleague and my conversation was briefly interrupted by a friend saying hi to my colleague. Once the stranger left, the colleague I was meeting with said, “Don’t trust that guy. He’s a disgusting womanizer. You sleep with him and he’ll tell everyone in town.” I replied, “Good to know. I’ve been wondering how to get the word out.” He just looked at me puzzled. I explained, “It’s a joke, you couldn’t tell because traditionally those are denoted by humor.” With the world’s most dire look on his face, he replied, “Ah, yes, I know, funny.”
The thing about my sense of humor is that it is really just for me and maybe someone somewhere in Papua New Guinea. I believe somewhere there is a cannibal who could tolerate me at least until the entrée. Nah, I better stick to the bourbon-based societies. I find cocktail hour makes me the most charming of all. Remind me to send a thank-you note to Kentucky.