Laughter Is the Best Medicine

I apply all sorts of medicines to my life when I'm feeling less than cheery.  You know, when you're not exactly tripping the light fantastic (ala "L'Allegro" by John Milton).  Well, I'm currently trying to break out of an unwarranted funk.  I was doing the bus driver gig this morning, taking my kids to school.  Right in front of my wheels, in the middle of the road, I saw the tiniest baby bunny ever, with no parent bunny in sight.  


If you know me, you know I will go to all sorts of lengths to save an animal's life, so of course I held up the entire frantically, frenzied queue of harried parents desperately trying to drop their kids off before the tolling of the last school bell.  I had to let that little guy pass to safety, no matter the honking.  And the bunny was so incredibly tiny (smaller than a small potato) that no one had a clue as to what I was doing.  I was just the irritating car in the line that wouldn't move.  

Despite my unhappy, irritated state, the baby bunny ordeal reminded me of one of my best funk-averting medications -- laughter.  Not just any laughter -- laughing at yourself.  

Many years ago -- probably a decade ago -- I encountered a similar scene.  I was rushing home from work a bit earlier than usual; the sun was just setting.  Right in the middle of the road in the loop that encircles our housing development -- a line of three, waddling baby ducks lost and confused.  I of course pulled over to the side of the road, parked, got out, and attempted to stand in as a surrogate mother duck to guide those ducks to the fake lake  in the center of our neighborhood.  I ended up herding, more than leading.  

But here's the funny part -- the moment that still flits into my mind from time to time and leaves me smiling.  A car of teenage boys drove by, arms and heads hanging out of windows.  I must have been a sight.  Skirt and blouse and heels -- and ducks.  Well, those young boys slowed and yelled out the window to me:  "YOU'RE TOO WHITE" and then sped away, laughing.  I stopped in my tracks, jaw hanging, no comeback coming to my lips.  All I could think was "True."  The car was gone anyway.  And then all I could do was laugh.  I had long given up my skin-cancer-inducing-and-fruitless efforts to get tan.  White is alright.  But the audacity to say (yell) such a thing!  

So, when I find myself too gloomy, taking myself too seriously, I think of those boys (who are grown ups now).  And I laugh.  And it makes me feel good.  I'll probably be telling this story to my grandchildren years and years down the road just for the joy of it.