Being funny is being so many other things. It's being smart, quick-witted, balanced, and confident. Being funny at the right moments means being mindful of others' sensitivity, perception, and well-being. Funny means being aware of one's surroundings, literally and in the context of society as a whole.
Funny is awesome. I can't live without funny.
But sometimes, funny is one big band-aid.
How many of our big screen humor hunks have tragic lives? How often have we been surprised at the insurmountable deaths of comedians and the like? Funny is often the only way we can avoid the other, less simplistic emotions.
This isn't always the case. In my own life, humor is likely always evident in some context, but not necessarily out of sadness. I like sarcasm, rhyme format, and story-telling - funny has an equal opportunity pathway in my eyes - as long as it isn't destructive, bring it on! So I started writing this blog post - allegedly, as a funny blog post. It was about how the physical therapy aides have this huge issue with wrapping ice packs on knees. They can't seem to get it right, yet no one wants to admit to one another that they can't do it because in the 5 months I've been getting ice wrapped on my knee, there has NEVER been a consistent formula. Sometimes the plastic goes on first, wraps one ice pack on top, then figure eights to another pack on the bottom. Sometimes they have me help (I wait for them to ask, more out of entertainment than as stubbornness). One time the guy did such a bad job, I stood up and it slipped right off. He pretended not to notice and said "have a good day!"
It's funny.
But that would have been my band-aid blog.
The truth is, I'm pretty scared.
I've been having some pain the last week. Remember how I wasn't cleared to run? Well, my surgeon said otherwise last Monday. Last Tuesday, I had my moment. I strapped my long lost friend THEBRACE on, hopped on the treadmill, and gave it my best 3 minutes.
It hurt. It felt wobbly. It was no where near my Forrest Gump moment. I wasn't ready. When it's your third go around, you know better for these things.
I took off the brace and succumbed back to the spin bike, relaying the sad truth to my PT the next morning, who shook her head as she dug deep into my tightened muscles. I couldn't have taken more than 100 running paces, but I knew I wasn't actually ready.
And then I'm not sure what happened. Things felt good - things like jumping jacks and burpees. Then things felt tight. So tight, my calf wore the badge of knuckle bruises. By Friday, things weren't getting better. My physical therapist had the disappointed face on, my leg throbbed, and my knee was more swollen that it had been in some time. I took Saturday off from the gym, but things just weren't going back to normal.
Sunday felt a little better, so I gave the gym another go.
There wasn't an "oh no" moment. I didn't have a fall, a slip up, or a disaster. But by the end of the weekend, my discomfort started to turn to actual fear.
Funny is awesome. I can't live without funny.
But sometimes, funny is one big band-aid.
How many of our big screen humor hunks have tragic lives? How often have we been surprised at the insurmountable deaths of comedians and the like? Funny is often the only way we can avoid the other, less simplistic emotions.
This isn't always the case. In my own life, humor is likely always evident in some context, but not necessarily out of sadness. I like sarcasm, rhyme format, and story-telling - funny has an equal opportunity pathway in my eyes - as long as it isn't destructive, bring it on! So I started writing this blog post - allegedly, as a funny blog post. It was about how the physical therapy aides have this huge issue with wrapping ice packs on knees. They can't seem to get it right, yet no one wants to admit to one another that they can't do it because in the 5 months I've been getting ice wrapped on my knee, there has NEVER been a consistent formula. Sometimes the plastic goes on first, wraps one ice pack on top, then figure eights to another pack on the bottom. Sometimes they have me help (I wait for them to ask, more out of entertainment than as stubbornness). One time the guy did such a bad job, I stood up and it slipped right off. He pretended not to notice and said "have a good day!"
It's funny.
But that would have been my band-aid blog.
The truth is, I'm pretty scared.
I've been having some pain the last week. Remember how I wasn't cleared to run? Well, my surgeon said otherwise last Monday. Last Tuesday, I had my moment. I strapped my long lost friend THEBRACE on, hopped on the treadmill, and gave it my best 3 minutes.
It hurt. It felt wobbly. It was no where near my Forrest Gump moment. I wasn't ready. When it's your third go around, you know better for these things.
I took off the brace and succumbed back to the spin bike, relaying the sad truth to my PT the next morning, who shook her head as she dug deep into my tightened muscles. I couldn't have taken more than 100 running paces, but I knew I wasn't actually ready.
And then I'm not sure what happened. Things felt good - things like jumping jacks and burpees. Then things felt tight. So tight, my calf wore the badge of knuckle bruises. By Friday, things weren't getting better. My physical therapist had the disappointed face on, my leg throbbed, and my knee was more swollen that it had been in some time. I took Saturday off from the gym, but things just weren't going back to normal.
Sunday felt a little better, so I gave the gym another go.
There wasn't an "oh no" moment. I didn't have a fall, a slip up, or a disaster. But by the end of the weekend, my discomfort started to turn to actual fear.
As I sat and tried to get cozy in the theater last night, however, cringing at Bradley Cooper's depiction of the American Sniper, my mind started spinning. I was massaging my knee and hit a spot that made me jump. I know that spot. I know that jump.
Suddenly everything seemed to click - the tightness, the swelling, the area of pain.
Shit.
My meniscus.
My meniscus is the red-headed stepchild in my slew of surgeries because the ACL has always gotten all of the attention. The poor little bugger has also gone through repair and recovery too though.
I've never really given a second thought to tearing or re-tearing my meniscus. It's just kind of this secondary injury that floats alongside the real one. I don't even know it without the ACL tear. So big deal, right?
Unfortunately, my physical therapist mirrors my concerns, and for once, I even detected a little bit of sympathy in her voice. I don't think anyone wants their work to go unappreciated - and she works hard to keep me healthy.
The weird thing about this mindset is that I'm really unsure of things. I knew when I tore my ACL. I was positive. I knew what recovery was like. Did I re-tear my meniscus? I wouldn't be surprised with either answer. So now, I sit. Not for long, but long enough to hope for the best and expect the worst. It crossed my mind to just leave this seemingly short moment of fear out - to talk about the yes I tore, or no I didn't tear result - not this preceding scaredy cat syndrome. But what would be the truth in that?
I'm mad at myself for being fearful, but I figure I'll cop to it before I reach back out and grab the shield and armor of humor to deflect whatever happens next. In the meantime, I'll have plenty of ice-wrapped knees to keep me smiling and thoroughly entertained. We shall see what tomorrow holds!
Suddenly everything seemed to click - the tightness, the swelling, the area of pain.
Shit.
My meniscus.
My meniscus is the red-headed stepchild in my slew of surgeries because the ACL has always gotten all of the attention. The poor little bugger has also gone through repair and recovery too though.
I've never really given a second thought to tearing or re-tearing my meniscus. It's just kind of this secondary injury that floats alongside the real one. I don't even know it without the ACL tear. So big deal, right?
Unfortunately, my physical therapist mirrors my concerns, and for once, I even detected a little bit of sympathy in her voice. I don't think anyone wants their work to go unappreciated - and she works hard to keep me healthy.
The weird thing about this mindset is that I'm really unsure of things. I knew when I tore my ACL. I was positive. I knew what recovery was like. Did I re-tear my meniscus? I wouldn't be surprised with either answer. So now, I sit. Not for long, but long enough to hope for the best and expect the worst. It crossed my mind to just leave this seemingly short moment of fear out - to talk about the yes I tore, or no I didn't tear result - not this preceding scaredy cat syndrome. But what would be the truth in that?
I'm mad at myself for being fearful, but I figure I'll cop to it before I reach back out and grab the shield and armor of humor to deflect whatever happens next. In the meantime, I'll have plenty of ice-wrapped knees to keep me smiling and thoroughly entertained. We shall see what tomorrow holds!