And I do appreciate it.
But life has to continue. And it will. Regardless of whether you'd like it to or not. Time passes and things happen. Good things, not so good things, noteworthy things, and things that make you want to laugh.
And laughing is good.
Laughing is when it all begins to get better. Even if tears are streaming down your cheeks at the same time.
This sometimes elusive laughter can take the form of a joy that comes out of suddenly realizing that amidst the misery and the difficult-to-understand things the discussion has turned to literary groupies and how we, my friend and I, just might totally be some, and whether Toni Morrison, like another author who shall remain nameless but who is totally cool and wrote back in such a nice way, would answer fan mail.
I'm betting on Toni being totally down like that. She wears her hair in dreds after all. And if dreds and a readership of bazillions don't say "Hey Girl, where do I send this personal reply to?" I don't know what does.
The laughter can come in the form of a lousy theatre performance that becomes the thing to see when you see it with someone who appreciates your wit as you chew apart the performance with edgy and inventive (You didn't hear them, so hush.) remarks before meandering onto pithy comments about those people sitting behind you (You didn't see them, so hush.) who never got the memo about a) Cats not being a comedy, b) not all pieces made of the same cloth sold in the store are meant to be worn simultaneously, or c) the one that said putting glitter into your wrinkles doesn't actually make them go away. It just makes them, well, shine.
And then there's my personal theatre-related favorite d) NB! Camel toe should not be seen on a large male in a tight leotard impersonating a cat. That's just too much wildlife in one package right there.
In the words of the Hubby who has been trying so hard: Bad theatre is still theatre. It's just bad theatre.
The laughter can come when you're supposed to keep a straight face. This might happen when a group of boys sends out an envoy to ask you whether you're a rockstar. Because, they maintain, you look like one.
And they're serious about it too. You almost don't want to say no. But then you think about that singing you do in the shower sometimes, and when you're driving around in the car by yourself, and you can't bring yourself to lie. What if they wanted you to sing something? I have understood that 8 year olds would have very little tolerance for "they make it better in the studio." And I wouldn't want to be no Britney either.
I'd want to be P!nk.
The laughter can be embedded in the sigh of relief you let out when you hear that person who you've been worried about say that if anything, the tragedy has shown her how much she has to be thankful for.
And that laughter takes kilos and kilos off your shoulders.
A surprise visitor who very much made me laugh when he/she (how exactly do you sex a cat?) came to visit on Sunday.
Laughter is life-affirming. And even if I'm not completely there, at least I'm trying.