Giggle Fits

I love hearing people laugh.  It’s infectious, not Swine Flu infectious, just hard to resist.  There are little under your breath giggles. My husband, dear Benjamin, does this sort of explosive guffaw when we watch a movie.  He is like a little volcano no one knew was brewing up lava when “Bwaaaahhhaa” leaps out of his mouth.  Those of us who love him, just shrink in our seats a little then laugh along. 

     Staring contests inevitably stir up a little laughter action.  My six-year-old Luke tries with all his first-grader might to stare me down.  I just have to raise my left eyebrow a bit and the poor soul grabs his stomach and starts rolling.  My sisters and mother experience something we call “Giggle Fits”.  Unless you have been in the presence of this phenomenon, it seems too strange an occurrence.

     Giggle Fits come out of nowhere.  Left Field. Kalamazoo. Mars. They are often associated with the following co-morbid disorders: tragedy, poverty, stress, frustration or all of the aforementioned.  Oddly, out of such negative situations, giggles can’t be stopped.

    On more than one family dinner table conversation or porch talk, something happens.  Maybe one of us passes gas. Maybe one says a “bad” word by accident. Maybe someone just gives a silly look. The worst offerings come from past events recollected as far funnier than they actually occurred.  The story gets a little flowerier; the details get embellished a bit.  Suddenly, we have the makings for a Giggle Fit to beat the band.

     Uncontrollable laughter. It brings tears to your eyes. Bladder control sometimes gets compromised and shaking in all manner of silliness ensues.  We have been known to laugh so hard everything happens at once and all of us together look like a 911 call in the making as we gasp for breath.  “Stop it! Stop it! I’m gonna pee in my pants!” one of us will say.  Who ever the perpetrator is just keeps lapping it on. 

     People who don’t understand us usually just walk away.  They don’t get it.  We really don’t care. We can’t. We are too busy cramping up, crossing our legs and pleading for mercy.  The interesting thing is that the more horrible a situation, the more we seem to cope with it by making it funny.  Maybe it’s because we’re Irish.  You know what they say about Irish Wakes…that’s why they are so much fun.  Not from the alcohol, but from the crazy women laughing at the look on the deceased’s face or Aunt So and So’s dress that got caught in her pantyhose. 

     My, then 4 year old, son Max, was present during one such eruption.  He just didn’t understand why my sisters and mother were all laughing at the table.  It had nothing to do with him, but he hid under the table until it was over.  They are now known as “McEwan Giggle Fits”.  I am proud to say all of my children have inherited the McEwan Giggle Gene. Ben, by osmosis experiencing so much of it, has become a devotee as well. It seems he had it all along; it just needed fertile ground to sprout.

     I do love watching people laugh. Babies laughing will stop everyone in adoration.  I love it when they laugh so hard their little faces turn red and they slobber all over whoever is holding them.  Peek a Boo becomes worse than an MLB blooper on ESPN.

     Why is it that we find people getting hurt as hilarious?  I guess we are just happy it didn’t happen to us! Hence, I broke my toe once in the presence of 4 children all laughing at me on the floor grasping my foot and saying (somewhat familiar) bad words they were told never to say.  The most serious burn I have ever experienced has continued to provide uproarious laughter because of the retelling of the story.  Let’s just say Martha Stewart probably would never refer to a pot roast this way, EVER.

     Eliciting laughter from someone is like winning a prize at a county fair.  The bigger the laugh, the bigger the stuffed animal you get to lug home.  Getting them to hold their stomach and wipe tears from their cheeks, that would call for all the goldfish bowls.

     I like it when you have no idea what the person is saying or laughing about, yet you feel compelled to join in.  My stepfather, Bobby Lee, gets us going all the time.  He has a very thick, twangy Southern accent of a little Louisiana Cajun and a dash of Alabama Sass.  He starts telling some crazy fishing story and then he just goes: laughing and talking into some sort of intelligible English so that we all just slap our knees right along with him. 

     The great “Uhhhhh” at the end of such a Giggle Fit declares the war over. The white flag has been raised once again, surrendering to the most healing place we all go for comic relief. It really was no contest. The foe of sadness and tragedy has no chance against a little group of silly women with the propensity to giggle.