Of Morbidity

I tend to have a morbid sense of humor.  One that can be a little off-putting to others at times.  I suppose I could label it my coping mechanism, but for whatever reason, I find humor in things that just should not be laughed at.  I recall one moment in 5th grade G.A.'s (that would be a Wednesday night church program for young girls, in case you were unaware) when one tender girl was sharing a broken-hearted prayer request for a family whose home had burned to the ground.  If I remember correctly, children had perished.  Now that is not funny.  Ever.  But she then mentioned that the entire house was ashes, except for the garage, which remained entirely intact. 

And at that moment, I burst out laughing.  No joke.

Because I suddenly remembered a comedy bit I'd heard once about how in plane crashes it always seems the only thing completely unharmed is the tail of the airplane, and the comedian said that's where he wants to sit because, "If I get my tail on the tail, I'd save my tail."  No, not hilarious material here, but funny enough to make a 5th grader burst out laughing upon hearing that the fire that devastated an entire family left only the garage - just like the tail of an airplane. 

And in that moment of laughter, ever young girl in the room stared at me in horror.  I was in near hysterics - over a family who had just lost everything, including their children.

I'd say I pretty much aced Awkward 101.

This weekend, however, I discovered it's not my fault.  It's genetic.

My 75-year-old Grandma fell backwards down a hill in her yard on Friday night and shattered her wrist, causing her to currently be doped up on pain medication and entirely missing this opportunity to play with her great-grand-daughter who she has only seen once before in her life - as well as the chance to hold her great-grandson who will be much to wily and rambunctious to snuggle the next time she meets him.

And my family has been laughing all day.

Accusing my mom of pushing her down the hill.  Hilarious.  Teasing her about going to fast on the merry-go-round, but blaming it on a hill.  Giggles.  Asking her to open stuck-on jar lids.  Haha.  Threatening to take embarrassing photos of her drug-induced loppiness.  So funny.  Calling her plain lazy when others have to help her into the bedroom.  Oh, we just crack ourselves up.

Meanwhile, her arm kills her every time she moves it, the Vicadin is wearing off too fast and she'll have to have surgery to repair the damage later this week (it was too severe for them to operate this weekend, before the swelling went down and the proper doctors were available). 

And we're hosting a joke contest.

Apparently it's just how we deal.