COMIC RELIEF
And realizing...It's not my fault.
Most families have one.
The one who keeps the conversation going on the family Zoom call by telling a completely off-the-wall story. The one who welcomes new friends or long-lost friends into the group with a slap on the back and a pithy observation.
I’m talking about the family jokester, the entertainer. In our family, that one is my husband, Bill.
Early in our marriage, my husband’s zingers and off-color stories irked me. I even branded them “The Bill Show” and begged him not to put on that show at every party and gathering. I’d say things like, “Nobody cares” and “Let someone else talk.” Which were mean things to say. Why is it that we say the meanest things to those we love the most? GUILTY.
I took his zingers literally. Like when he’d ask, “Who’s your daddy?” after unloading the dishwasher or cooking dinner. Those are both very nice things to do. But rather than give him the answer I knew he wanted to hear, which was, “You’re my daddy!”, I’d reply, “Charlie.” Charlie is my dad’s name. So, who was the wet blanket in that exchange? I’ll let you be the judge.
What I’ve learned over the years is that our friends and family think he’s funny! They are glad for his mischievousness to get conversations going or fill the gaps and bring everyone together.
Does he take it too far? YES.
Often, I’m pulled way out of my comfort zone. More often than not, everyone rolls their eyes and groans. But, as it turns out, that’s part of the fun. We’ve all grown to expect and appreciate his stories and shenanigans.
Like a lot of things around our house, the stories have mellowed over the years. These days, he’s more likely to share a personal humiliation rather than intentionally pushing buttons with a political zinger.
He had us all rolling with laughter recently when he told us a story from 1985, when he let a girl talk him into getting his hair frosted. He did it because he thought he could get a date. He was seated in the chair, covered by a cape with foils of bleach on the top of his head … and then she told him she had a boyfriend. He was disappointed but not as disappointed as when he realized his newly blond hair made him look more like Ricky Schroder than Val Kilmer.
Just as his storytelling has mellowed over the years, my tendency to get embarrassed has eased as well. That doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped kicking him under the table at dinner parties when I think he’s crossing the line … but I have stopped feeling responsible for other people’s reactions.
For years, I made myself responsible for how other people felt. I would blame myself when things didn’t go to plan and no one was having any fun. It’s taken years, but I’ve finally realized that it’s not my fault if it rains on my garden party.
It’s not my fault if someone gets offended.
It’s not my fault if my adult children have struggles.
And maybe that’s why I’m finally able to enjoy the comic relief.
