I think Erma Bombeck said it best: When humor goes, there goes civilization. A darling of the newspaper world for more than three decades, the late humorist gained great fame - and fans - for her witty, no-holds-barred opinions on life.
I tend to agree with Erma, which is to say I'm a glass-half-full kinda gal. I know it's cliché, but laughter really is the best medicine - and it beats paying out the keister for prescription therapies. As a divorced mom of four, I'd have lost my wits years ago if I didn't routinely include humor in my day.
So when the fine folks at this magazine asked me if I'd like to take on this column, after I nearly fainted at the thought of sharing the intimacies of my life with thousands of readers month after ever-loving month, I answered with a resounding, "Well, duh. Of course!" (OK, so I was a bit more polite than that. But I'm really enjoying this creative liberty thing, so bear with me.)
Consider this column a place to kick back, relax and guffaw at someone else's foibles while simultaneously thanking your lucky stars that your life in no way resembles it. But let's face it: We really all can relate to the whole when-things-can-go-wrong-they-always-do conundrum. And, at least in my world, the best recourse is simply to laugh it off.
Honestly, I rarely take things too seriously. It's thanks to my wit, workouts and wine (not necessarily in that order) that I've survived with my sanity intact. (Hey, I heard that!)
But seriously, you really haven't lived until you've experienced the unadulterated humor that comes from going about life with kids in tow. Then toss in the fact that you yourself are the world's biggest goof, and you've got the makings of some seriously comical situations …
Like the time my daughter tossed her cookies in the women's dress section at your favorite store, narrowly missing a totally hot Nicole Miller jersey knit. Not only was it horribly humiliating, but the store unfortunately took me up on my offer to clean up the mess. Can I just say here that two-ply paper towels are so worth the extra coin, people? Found that out the hard way.
Or when my then-3-year-old son (whose identity I'm concealing because he would kill me if I revealed it) drops trou in front of our neighbor, subsequently relieving himself on a nearby Bradford pear while exposing his nether regions to several passersby.
Or how about the time when, in your haste to get dressed in the morning, you accidentally grab (what turn out to be) your transparent leggings. Blessedly, you realize your mistake before your workout starts. But with mere minutes to spare, you promptly knot a windbreaker around your waist, thus curtaining your wardrobe malfunction from your fellow gym-goers and saving yourself from utter mortification.
Not that I haven't mortified myself many times in the past. (It's a skill I've honed with razor-sharp accuracy, in fact.) Which is likely how I've learned to simply shrug off stuff and swap the shame with humor. Tears of laughter sure beat tears of any other type. Plus, if I'm going to make my mascara run, I'd much rather be doing it with a smile on my face and laughter galore than the other way around.
I have a sneaking suspicion Ms. Bombeck would approve.
illustration by Charles Marsh
