So here’s a confession. I share this trait with my siblings, other members of my family and a number of my friends; it’s my inescapable habit of laughing at physical humor. Three’s Company was my favorite show growing up; I didn’t understand – nor much care – about the sexual innuendos or Mrs. Roper trying to get it constantly on with the mister or that Jack was trying to pass himself off as gay. Nope, what I tuned in for was Jack hitting himself with the ironing board, Crissy knocking over a table at the Reagle Beagle, or any of the cast tripping over their own feet on a daily basis. At a ripe young age, that kind of stuff made my side hurt. My mother constantly would walk into the room, sigh, and say, “Leah, I don’t want you watching this stuff.” But I couldn’t help it. The roommates’ constant attraction to consistently being accident prone was my first childhood crush (before Ricky Schroeder and Silver Spoons came along). The rush of laughing at someone getting clocked in the head with a swinging door was enough to make my night. And to this day, I die a little inside when someone trips up the sidewalk, slips on a banana peel, or stumbles up the stairs. Lucky I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t have been much help. Oh, I would have asked how you were after the fact. But that would be after I dried my tears of laughter. I’m a sick person. I know it. I accept it. Again, blame it on my family. For some a number of years, there was a stretch of birthday parties where there was always a pinata. And one time, someone was smart enough to get the whole production on video. My oldest nephew, blindfolded and swinging the 2×4 as if he was up at bat at Shea Stadium, took a crack at the pinanta. He ended up skimming the top of the donkey and clocking another family member -the one standing behind the pinata, holding the string that kept it up in the air - across the forehead. Normal, caring people would have rushed to his side. Not my family; amidst the laughter and the occasional “ohmigod are you okay?” dotted with snickers, you could hear someone yell out “Did someone get that on video?” Sick we are. Fun, but sick. Cause at that party, the one holding the pinanta string was the only ass that ended up getting hit.
I have yet to really pull it together and get beyond the slapstick giddiness of seeing someone else getting knocked around like they were one of The Three Stooges. Even at times of seriousness and requiring the utmost maturity, I still lose it. I remember Carrie and myself went out looking for cars after mine had gotten stolen out of my apartment parking lot a few years ago. This wasn’t too long after Mr. X and I had called it quits and I had been suffering with bouts of heartache and the pain of having to get over someone. To have my car stolen on top of all that was enough to make me feel like a country western song. So you can imagine how psyched I was to look for cars in the middle of November in Upstate New York. One evening after work, Carrie and I had hit about our fifth car lot. We were traipsing through the rows of cars, trying to read the prices on the side and peeking in to see if it had a CD player or not, or if it had enough room to fit our Target purchases after a Saturday of shopping, or if it had a sunroof for our friends to hang their heads out the window. You know, playing the role of serious car shoppers. Ten, fifteen minutes went by and no one came out to help us. Instead, we saw a bunch of people through the large glass windows all warm inside the showroom, sipping coffee, laughing as they sidled around, watching TV from mounted screens. At that moment, a distinguished gentleman whipped a vehicle into the driveway, stepped out and strode – not many people stride but this guy had it down – with purpose towards the door. He caught sight of us and stopped short. He came over to us and asked if anyone had come out and helped us yet. We told him no. Nostrils flaring, he again strode (now with furious purpose) into the showroom. Although we couldn’t hear what was going on inside, we could guess what probably was happening. The distinguished gentleman - Fred was his name - started throwing his arms around, pointing at us, pointing at the people inside, clearly angry and upset that no one had ventured out to help us. Carrie leaned into me and said in her little voice, “Oh my, it looks like someone is getting fired in there.” After he was finished shouting, we saw Fred make his way towards the door, coming out to help us. He was so upset that when he threw open the door and walked out, and again with all the striding business, poor Fred didn’t notice one of the flag poles that was sticking out horizontally from the side of another pole, right at his head level. His eyes on us and clearly not on this obstacle in front of him, he slammed his forehead right into it, whipping his head back in one smooth motion, and then in another swift motion he moved his head quickly forward and down between his knees, holding his head in his hands. It all happened so quick, and the clanging of the bar still ringing in my ears, Carrie and I just gaped. And at that moment, I knew that I had to pull myself together. I could feel it bubbling up from way down deep inside. My laughter threatened to come out as if someone let out a tremendous fart in church and the priest was in the middle of his homily. Carrie grabbed my arm, knowing what was happening and understanding that I was about to lose it. She hissed, “You’re going to need to pull yourself together”, as he made his way over to us again, still holding the side of his head. He came up to us shouting something about having asked to have that pole removed weeks ago, and mumbling about people who don’t do what they are asked to do in the first place and that’s how people get hurt. Fred then looked at both of us and said, “Is my head bleeding?” Not daring to look directly at him, I just shook my head, biting my lip and trying to breathe normally out of my nose. His pain for the moment forgotten, he then proceeded to walk me through a nearby Subaru’s specifications, while I noticed out of the corner of my eye Carrie tipping her head sideways looking at his face. She then spoke up and said “You know, sir, you are kind of bleeding…”. He then became extremely flustered and grabbed for his handkerchief – because of course he had one – and began mopping at his head. He was so involved in his job and being angry at his employees that he momentarily forgot about the blood that was indeed dripping down his head. It took a customer to have to point out his pain. Although I’m sure he clearly felt the blow (it was obvious as he had held his head between his legs) he tried to ignore it and push it aside for the time being, concentrating on what was most important; making a sale. Well, when all was said and done, I didn’t end up buying a car from Fred. But it did make for a good story. And as weird and as screwed up as it may sound, his physical pain made me momentarily forget about my own emotional aches.
It’s inevitable that we all carry pain as baggage into the next relationship we venture into. If we are lucky enough, the person you are with at the time, is open enough to share their emotional baggage in exchange for yours. So you end up trading stories, showing scars and sighing about how “everything happens for a reason” or “well, I wouldn’t be the person today if that didn’t happen” or “shit happens” or, like REM so eloquently sang, ”everybody hurts”. It’s true; heartache and painful emotional experiences happens to the best of us. And often, we stride on through life, trying to shove it down and aside as if it’s a pizza box at the top of the garbage heap. We may think our past painful experiences is all just garbage and not worth keeping, but yet, it still ends up following us around like dryer sheets clinging to our pants. And it still effects the way we feel about relationships, the way we approach them and how we move ourselves through the understanding that this time it will – and can – all be different. It’s funny how something we try so hard to forget about, still ends up consuming so much of our thoughts and how we look at the relationships that we are currently in. In fact, we end up being so caught up in how much we had been hurt, and how much we need to forget about it, and then getting angry that we can’t seem to forget about it and then trying to deal with the anger at the person who caused it in the first place and goddamit why can’t I just forget this already that you forget that someone else’s pain is just as real -and just as present – as yours. I was recently reminded of that with my current partner. A couple of weeks ago, I was in the middle of expressing to him my feelings about our relationship and sticking together, knowing it was worth it, we were worth it. (and this is hard for me to do. Past experience has led me to believe that having any sort of serious conversation like this with a boyfriend is risking the fact that he might freak out, look at me like I just grew five heads and run the other way). So you can imagine my surprise when I heard him hesitate and say “Are you sure?” in the smallest, most cautious voice I had ever heard him use. That’s when it hit me. He had been just as hurt, and just as angry as I had been, from what he had experienced in the past. Yet, here we were, arms around each other, and giving us a chance. Scars and all. Obstacles and all. That’s something. And this time, I wasn’t laughing.
I gotta say; Mr. Pretty Damn Close is playing with a full set. And I’m not talking about Bocce. I’m talking about the other B word. The last time I had a serious conversation with a guy in a relationship, he never called me back again. Ever. After saying to him that I didn’t think we had been emotinally connecting lately, I heard him sigh and say on the other end, “Okay, let me just set my stuff down and I’ll call you back.” But he never did. And all that ever spelled to me was c-o-w-a-r-d-l-y. Mr. PDC, however, just doesn’t carry a mental hankerchief around with him to wipe up past wounds, but he does it with grace, patience and a genuineness I had yet to experience. And he listens. And he also can fix stuff. Literally. So that’s pretty hot. But I digress.
Physical humor aside, it’s important to note that no matter if you are staying in the relationship you are currently in, or if you are looking for a new one, take note that there is always someone else who has been just as hurt-or maybe more than – you have. All you need to do is listen, comfort, wipe some tears and offer a hankerchief. But know when to say when; when pain becomes a third roommate or a house guest that has stayed way past their welcome, it comes due time to learn from it and move on. It’s okay to recognize pain, listen to each other when it comes back to rear its head from time to time, and then move on ahead. It doesn’t mean that you forget, but it does mean to live in the moment and enjoy what you got. It’s okay to laugh about it, too, when things are all said and done. Because sometimes, it’s good to see things like an episode from a sitcom. But your life is happening now! No use staying up late for the reruns.
Copyright 2011, Leah A. Flynn
