No disrespect intended toward Bette Midler, but her famous song is akin to a laugh track for me. I can’t listen to even the teensiest bit of “Wind Beneath My Wings” without losing my mind. I’ll explain…
Do you get the giggles at inopportune times? I’ve been plagued with poorly-timed giggle fits forever. I still say it’s the best ever stress reliever and I’m not the only one who thinks so. However…when I ran across this thought recently – author unknown – I paused because I immediately thought of friends who could’ve written the wisdom I snipped into the image above:
Everyone needs a friend who they probably shouldn’t be allowed to sit next to at a serious function.
Sometimes hilarity rises as the result of sleep deprivation or the outcome of intolerance to stupid. If a smirk blossoms on my lips – starting with a pursed pout — as if I’m trying to contain a guffaw…I’m doomed. The rising giggle fit cannot be contained and must escape. Try as I might, I can grimace and squirm. Contort my face to feign decorum, deference, reverence. But I often lose the battle and nonsense follows.
Case in point? Let’s say you’ve trekked across country to attend an awards ceremony. You didn’t want to go, but you and a couple of academic besties are being “honored”, so you pack the fancy duds and fly out.
We assume we’re a noble crew, standing out amongst our peers as innovators. Leaders. We trudge through the first two days of the three-day conference, fatigued and beleaguered. The conference is a bust. We learn nothing new. We are cranky in search of food and adult beverages to soothe our bad attitudes. Hang in there, we say to ourselves, at least thrice each day, because on the last day we shall smile pretty for a photo op and flee. We’ll walk across a stage, nod and wave to the proletariat and offer a royal wave. Then and only then shall we hustle to the airport, like gladiators. Academic victors. Homeward bound.
When the appointed time arrives, we find ourselves in the largest ballroom in Manhattan. (Not verified but go with it.) Whoa…and wow. My colleagues and I adjust our semi-formal attire, which at a conference means we put on actual shoes and attempted ‘business casual’. No jeans or t-shirts. Suits, ties, skirts. This required changing in the banquet hall bathrooms because we decided to be smart and check out of our rooms early, in order to make a clean getaway to the airport after we’re honored.
As we look around, we notice some familiar faces. Other conference attendees. How lovely, we thought. This must be the big time if the attendees want to see the honorees as much as they clamored to find good seats for the opening plenary session. Pride. Better posture as I adjusted in my seat.
The lights dimmed and the program begins as the chairperson offers praise and congratulations to the “award winners”. I turn to my colleague on my left, Mrs. GalPal and whisper, “Oh no…were we supposed to sit closer?” Thinking it would be a long, awkward, Oscars-like sprint to the stage, I imagine myself stumbling (which is my habit – during choral concerts in France and during my grad school ceremony). I panic. My colleague on the right sshhhed me – poking me in the ribs and telling me to hush up. Like we were in church and solemnity was necessary. I glare at him, Mr. SUPER Serious, and turned to my GalPal and harrumphed.
A trail of flop sweat begins to flow down my back. All the rushing to change into a snug skirt suit in a bathroom stall rendered me red-faced and nervous. Getting the picture? Too much energy. I was overworked and ready to blow – in one way or another.
Madame Chairperson continues and directs everyone to turn to a person near us whom we don’t know – to offer congratulations. Whaaa?
Instinctively, GalPal, Mr. Serious and I begin rummaging for our award medals – given to us in our welcome packets “for the ceremony”. We envisioned a photo op and a handshake from a dignitary before an adoring crowd.
The medals were Olympic-like, in heavy, plastic-y bronze and held by gigantic red grosgrain ribbons. We pull our swag from our hidey spots – purses and pockets and toss them over our heads. And we notice: At the same time EVERY OTHER person in the largest ballroom ever did the same thing. Hundreds of hands in the air, sliding chunky medals overhead, self-service style.
Madame Chairperson says, “Turn to a winner you don’t know and offer your hearty congratulations”. We’re ALL winners?? Our “awards” were participation trophies? Congratulations! You have a pulse!
If that had been the end of it, I might’ve contained my burgeoning giggles. Alas, no. There was more. Obediently, GalPal, Mr. Serious and I shake hands with the three folks seated in front of us. They were from Poughkipsee, I think? Each of their faces beamed with pride. One of them was in tears. Overwhelmed by her good fortune. I think: I’m dying. I’m dying. Breathe. Keep it together.
I look at GalPal and Mr. Serious and knew I needed to leave, but we were boxed in – flanked on either side by a long row of awardees. I took a breath just as Madame Chairperson introduced the entertainment. “Stay standing”, she said, for a “special treat”.
I don’t think of myself as an unkind person. Maybe I’m wrong. I dunno where the chanteuse was plucked from but her rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings” was horrifyingly humorous. From the first note. When she hit the “did you ever know that you’re my hero” line, I was done. GalPal began to guffaw into a tissue, disguising her snort. Mr. Serious clutched his abdomen. And those around us? Swaying and singing along. How could we have been the only three in the entire ballroom who saw the insanity? Maybe others – poorly mannered hooligans like us – were there, but beyond our sight? We felt shame…but it did nothing to slow the roar of laughter that emanated from the tips of my toes. I cried, I slobbered, I chortled, I choked, I gagged.
The looks? As soon as we realized we were the troublemaking outliers, an usher appeared at the end of our row and those seated on the other side of (formerly) Mr. Serious distanced themselves from our sideshow of three.
Heads down, nametags off, we flew to the back of the ballroom to grab our luggage and flee. By the time we reached the street, the icy February air and the sounds of chaotic Times Square felt like soothing relief. Three troublemakers in need of oxygen.
I don’t remember much about the ride to the airport, other than glancing at the cab driver’s concerned face. He must’ve thought we’d been mauled. Or we were criminals fleeing a scene?
If you’re ever near and Bette begins to belt “Wings”, please do not take offense when I have a giggle fit. I’m time traveling and enjoying the ride.
-Vicki 😉
P.S. to Dottie: You’re not in the clear, girlie. I just couldn’t weave everything into this post. Antics with you deserve a showcase of their own. Same to you, Linda. LOL! 😎
P.P.S. I’ve got more stupid, silly stories. If you missed any of them, here’s a quick link to more “Crack Myself Up” posts. Remembering not to take myself too seriously is a daily task. xo!
Victoria Ponders 
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