When I was in the 4th grade something happened in the classroom that made the kids laugh. The girl sitting next to me had a big, loud laugh with her mouth open and head back. I remember thinking she looked like a fool. Like a horse on an old TV show laughing at the bad jokes told by the local farmer. It was not a good look, my 4th grade brain decided. I resolved, right then, that I would never look like a fool and I stopped laughing out loud.

I became reserved. Stoic. My laughs were sparse and tempered. I was cool, I was Jackie O., I was 10 and I had it together.

I managed to remain this way until somewhere in my 20s. I came to the slow realization that there was not a lot of joy in my life. I’d been depressed and anxious for years and any fun I had was fueled by substances, not real enjoyment.

During a workshop, the leader, who was a hard-core Union leader and activist, shared that he felt that laughter was the source of all good social change. If you can’t laugh, you’ll burn out. I was already cinders and ash. He recommended telling jokes.

This seemed ridiculous to me. Telling jokes, so childish, so trite. But I was willing to try anything and, begrudgingly, began to build my joke repertoire.

I had standards:

1. they couldn’t be oppressive: no making some group of people the object of ridicule

2. they and to be super smart or total groaners; bad puns were totally acceptable

3. they HAD to make me laugh.

I grew up with a smart-ass Dad and a punny Mom, so it’s not as if it was a humorless household. I remember watching late night Monty Python’s Flying Circus and Mary Hartman Mary Hartman during the 70s. This is some weird shit to let your kid watch when their brain is attempting to grasp the world and forming important neural connections about the behavior of human beings.

So I started asking people to tell me jokes. I asked kids. Adults are pretty serious about their joke telling while kids will just make one up on the spot if they don’t have an arsenal. Kids tell the BEST jokes. They love sharing and they love to laugh.

Then I tried it out, went out into social situations with my stash of humor. Some people thought I was weird. This proved an excellent social filter. Can’t stand a few bad jokes, then just move along Honey, I ain’t got time for your stick-in –the-mudness. Some people were embarrassed by or for me. Once again, see ya.

Mostly, though, people appreciated the opportunity to laugh. Through their appreciation, I started to enjoy it too. I particularly loved it when they didn’t laugh at my joke and I did. Because, of course, standard #3 clearly stated that the joke had to make me laugh. Often they would get a laugh out of me thinking my joke was that funny. Either way, it worked. It didn’t matter what we were laughing at, just that we were laughing.

Finally, something in me snapped. I was laughing all the time. And not that small reserved and cultured laugh from my youth. I had a big, loud, open mouthed, head back, unreserved laugh. I was no longer afraid to be the only one in a room laughing and I wasn’t afraid of being bold about it. I’d embraced the horse laugh and totally thrilled with it.

I can see people being shocked by my laugh. I can see them move away. I notice them getting uncomfortable in their own skin and judging me like I judged the girl in my 4th grade class. And I’m okay with this. I’ve been there, I get it. And it’s completely fine with me that they just keep moving along.

I can also see people lighting up. I see people coming closer. People will cross a room to tell me they love my laugh, that it’s inspired them to not hold themselves back, that it’s given them permission to express themselves without reserve.

I’m happy that my freedom has allowed them to step into their own. Joy begets joy.

Now I look for opportunities to laugh, to have fun and play with people who enjoy the same. It’s fabulous taking life a lot less seriously.