The Unbearable Burden to Be Funny

In which I must state, unequivocally and without any sort of overly redundant modest reserve, that I do not, under any circumstances, consider myself to be particularly funny in the entertaining sense of the word.

I am occasionally funny looking, on those days when my less-than-stellar fashion judgment rears its ugly head. And I am perhaps pretty funny smelling, in certain post-workout moments or following spurts of working in the yard under a Southern August sun (spurts which have, in recent years, become nonexistent, thank the gods of olfactory kindness.)

But I’ve never thought of myself as a funny ha-ha person.

Which is why I was struck dumb when, while visiting with an old friend of mine yesterday, she mentioned that she was waiting for me to write the funny book that would reflect the funny person she claimed I am. I was speechless, and un-funnily so.

I tend to think that being funny is something you’re born with. It’s hardcoded into your DNA like some genetically predisposed laugh track that shadows your every word, thought, and deed. It hangs out, riding on your coattails, waiting to be of use.

I, on the other hand, was abandoned by funny at the side of the road mere moments upon taking my first screaming breath in this world. I flub punch lines. I think funny thoughts but take them one, two, or even three steps too far when I give voice to those thoughts. I am queen of inducing the awkward pause, inspiring the quick death of conversations, and eliciting the tilting head and quizzical brow that says, in as flat a monotone as possible, “Huh.” In short, I am not funny.

^^^ no deadpan ^^^

But that, according to my friend, has no bearing on whether or not I can “write funny.” Which means that I might have, maybe-sorta-kinda-if-I’m-lucky have some funny somewhere inside me. And if that’s true, I’m almost certain it’s one of those largely “unnecessary” parts – like your appendix, or one of your two kidneys. I might’ve been born with it, but it’s an easily excisable part of me.

And once it’s gone? That’s it. I’ve got no more. There will be no hidden cache, no reserve stores of quick wit, humorous insight, or knee-slapping glory left for me to claim.

Is it enough for a book? The answer, I feel, is an obvious “no.” But now I feel it incumbent upon me to try.

And we all know what happens when I try to be funny. I’ll probably fall and hurt myself.

Hey, what’re you laughing at?