Being Normal Is Not Necessarily a Virtue

Dearest Obnoxious Orchid,

We are lucky to be malleable through all seasons of life. Imagine if who we dreamed ourselves to be at puberty was our reality as octogenarians? Our lack of change would mean that we could never laugh at ourselves - because our stark present would never be the past.

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be an FBI Special Agent when I got older. I was fueled by how federal law enforcement was represented in Miss Congeniality, and Victor’s description of Gracie resonated with me: “In place of relationships, [she has] sarcasm and a gun.” Sarcasm I had; a gun - well, not yet.

I Am Serious, and Don’t Call Me Shirley

Growing up, I was quite a serious child. My father frequently teased me about it, calling me a “lemon” (sour and serious are the same thing, obviously). Frankly, as a Capricorn, did I ever stand a chance? So, as you may have gathered, my first attempts at humor were deeply rooted in irony and sarcastic delivery. Sure, I found things funny, but I was not a funny person; I was *serious*.

And I would continue to be serious for a very long time. Concerned about how others saw me and determined to never appear weak, I made sure to always have a sharp, witty comment ready to deploy, to shore up the wall that kept most people from getting too close. And when the wall cracked, I lost what little humor I had real fast, and the repartee was no longer clever, just biting. (I’m sorry, was this topic supposed to be lighter? Ha!)

That’s Not Supposed To Be Funny

In the midst of all this posturing for other people, I was truly myself when immersed in novels and cinema. I always inhaled things that were not meant for my age, reading books like Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series, which I sneakily checked out from the libray (adult urban fantasy that went from vampire hunting and zombie raising to NSFW pre-tty fast), and watching films like The English Patient, which I found on VHS somewhere in the house (Oscar-winning war drama with a heavy dose of romance, rated R for sex, violence, and so on), all well before high school.

I read and watched everything I could get my hands on, and I found humor in places where it did and did not belong. I laughed when I was shocked by something, I giggled when I was nervous, I chortled when the conversations got too deep. There have been so many times when you and I would be sitting in a dark, silent theater, gazing at a somber scene, and some innocuous bit of dialogue would elicit a loud bray of laughter from me - lucky you’re Obnoxious and not easily embarrassed.

Growth, or Something Like It

When I finally did grow up, I did not become the FBI agent I dreamed of (nor the doctor, spy, or criminologist - bet you can figure out which shows lured me into those desires). But I did expand beyond my original repertoire of sarcasm and defensiveness. Perhaps it was due to the relationships I developed over the years, with people that I could be vulnerable with, instead of constantly on guard for drama and betrayal. People like you, Orchid, who drew me out of many a dark place with surprising moments of “too soon” humor that were actually perfectly timed. Because you have to laugh at it, all of it, the tragedy, the fear, the loss - you must find the funny, as it will save you.

These days, I am still a bit acerbic most of the time, so the sarcasm ain’t gone. But it has softened edges, like a well-read novel whose pages show years of wear. I still laugh at things that are not funny to most people, and I glare during moments that many folks find hilarious. I experience vicarious embarrassment both when reading and viewing traditionally comedic media; I have not finished seasons of shows because I cringed so hard I had to take a break and could never convince myself to go back. And when you make the mistake of watching something I find embarrassing with me, I’ll needlessly warn ya now - I will pause it and stare at you plaintively, begging with my eyes to not continue. Then I will unpause and we will resume, until the next moment that feels insurmountably awkward - rinse, repeat.

So, what’s our next watch in honor of this glorious spooky season?

-Austere Aster

P.S. When are you truly yourself? What are the moments, or the circumstances, that allow you to be wholly who you are, at that time?

[Currently listening to: “My Type” by Saint Motel. “...You-you-you’re just my type, oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing;” now there’s something that sets the bar high and has an excellent beat!]