I recently read the chapter in my Managing Stress class about humor therapy as a means to control stress in one’s life. They had a scale of the different kinds of humor and how effective they were at curbing stress. At the tail end of the scale was sarcasm, which I feel I use in spades. What was most interesting to me when I got to reading how the book described sarcasm, was that it didn’t match my definition… at all! The book described it as a very mean and cruel kind of humor, one that hurts feelings and causes anger and lowered self-esteem. The brand of humor at the top of the stress-relieving list was self-parody, which was much more akin to the version of humor I employ. It’s basically exaggerating behavior or speech or happenings in one’s life as a means of laughing it off instead of harboring feelings of despair and anger. And as long as you self-parody without harm to the self-esteem, it’s the best way to combat stressful situations. Now I can change what I refer to as my brand of humor from sarcasm to self-parody… and thank all that be holy I can because I have a doozy to tell today folks!
Last Monday evening after work, I brought out the ole bicycle for some exercising… a usual thing… nothing to see here folks. Madre just so happened to pass by and decide she wanted to join me, which is a once in a year happening as I usually go by myself, and prefer it that way so I don’t slow down the more fit people.
Madre chugged out her Wicked Witch of the West get up and we started on peacefully down the road. (Translation: I almost got hit by a car when I didn’t look both ways.) The first 20 minutes was a usual ride… huff, puff, peddle, dodge a kid on a tricycle, run over a yappy dog on purpose, almost eat the pavement, etc., etc., etc. But then we passed a field of llamas and Madre nearly snapped her neck off trying to catch a glimpse. She turned her bike around and stopped… and I gracefully did a pirouette chimichanga complete with a double lutz with a grenadier con misa (translation: I stopped next to her). Except when I “stopped” I forgot that my feet don’t touch the ground whilst sitting on the bicycle seat, missed the opportunity to hold myself up by foot, and instead tipped over into a gravel pit about 85 feet deep. So, now I’m lying in a gravel pit, bike on top of me, across from a field of llamas and I say to myself… Self… did you forget to pay your insurance bill? (Translation: #&$*#&$#$-IT!) Turns out llamas don’t take kindly to the insurance bill topic.
After the realization that I hadn’t broken anything, I finally stood up, only to discover an arm full of gravel pebbles and large pus-filled bumps. Later that night whilst showering, I found out I bruised half of my right side with a large black bruise centered right directly on my tailbone (translation: I now chant the entire opening of the Lion King every time I sit down… Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba Sithi uhm ingonyama). For those wondering, I don’t have pictures of said llamas on account of the fact that I was too busy picking gravel out of my tailbone.
Note to self: Death by llama gazing makes for a terrible story. Next time at least hold off for Death by Bigfoot glaring!
Got some visits from my friends, Larry and Curly… Moe was at the bar.