Negative Jokes

I love humor, but then again, who doesn't? When I am in a lousy mood, one big belly laugh usually does the trick to snap me out of my funk. I tend to be an equal opportunity aficionado of humor as well. I love a good dry sense of humor - especially if the comedian happens to be a grandpa, particularly my grandpa. Then I love it even more. I love what I call academic humor, where you need some educational experience to understand the pun or have an excellent memory from your sixth grade history class. I love cheesy jokes which require a groan after the punchline has been given. I love kids lame-o jokes because you know the kids think they are funny.

There is one kind of humor which I feel is not funny at all. These are the kind of jokes that require a fake laugh that sometimes I cannot even muster because of how I loath them . . . the negative jokes. The term "negative jokes" is really an overarching umbrella for all jokes that are the snarky or rudely sarcastic where the "comedian" thinks it is funny but they generally poke fun at someone. These jokes usually have a truthful undertone that allows the person telling to joke to say what they are really feeling in a way that would make the victim seem like a whiny baby if they called the person out on it. These jokes tend to be used by people who like to make themselves look good at the expense of someone else and the victim always ends up feeling foolish. I will sheepishly admit that I tend to be the butt of these negative jokes due to my naivety. It honestly really bothers me because if you know me, you know I am naive so I feel like it is a cheap shot.

Don't get me wrong. I love sarcasm. Love it. It is a part of my personality. I remember one time my youth group went on a retreat. The guest speaker was talking about sarcasm and how we need to be careful in how we use it. My youth pastor literally leaned forward in his chair and eyed each one of his sarcastic youth. We of course thought he was being sarcastic and saw his act as funny. In an effort to do research for this blog (you're welcome) I tried to refrain from any sarcasm. My goal was to do this for a whole day. I forgot for a split second and ending up failing before I even had breakfast. It doesn't help that Troy is a fan of sarcasm as well. 

I guess I am a little bit of a humor snob, but at least I am a snob who wants to promote good over evil. Negative jokes or making someone feel stupid is a big no-no in Friends 101. Now obviously, in our culture, it is natural to embrace some form of sarcasm. As long as you know the other people isn't serious, minor ribbing is okay. You can dabble in this kind of humor if you are with excellent friends who know you're joking and if this is not your go-to humor tactic.

Or if you are Troy and all of our guys friends we grew up with from church (yes, church). For some reason, those guys can rip on each other and still stand up in each others weddings. I honestly think that when one of the guys tells another that he throws like a girl, what they really mean, "I love you, man."

You'll Grow Into It

When I was a kid, we went clothes shopping once a year for new school clothes. My mom would look at the jeans, sweaters and shirts and throw desired items into the crook of her arm and when she was satisfied with her selection, my sister and I were ushered into a fitting room. I specifically remember the pants always being too big. My hips would get swallowed in the waist and I was certain I could pull them down without unbuttoning them. My mom would bend down and roll the pant legs up. Then I would hear the same message as I heard the year before, "They're a little big, but this way you can grow into them." After all, we only bought new clothes once a year, my mom wanted to make sure I didn't have a growth spurt and grow out of them.

After we got our allotted pants and tops, we would head over to the shoe department for a new pair of gym shoes. We got to pick out the shoes we wanted but my dad was in charge of the sizing. He would help us get the right size and tie our shoes. Then we got the "Toe Test." We would stand up and my dad would say, "Wiggle your toes." While we were wiggling our littlest digits, he had his thumb on the toe of our shoe to make sure that we had enough room. When he thought we had the right fit, he would say, "Yeah, those will be good. You'll have some room to grow into them."

I thought that when I became an adult, and stopped growing, I could forgo this phrase that is said by almost every parent on the planet. I don't need any more room. I will not grow into anything anymore. However, it seems I still have to grow into one more thing . . . my name.

Pamela is a name that my dad was set on naming his first daughter. My mom liked it too and ironically, her dad would have named her Pamela, but the deal was if she was a girl, her mom got to name her, so alas, Pamela would need to be shelved for the next generation. Growing up, I knew a couple of Pamelas, but the majority of them were older than me, like my parents' age. Usually when I introduce myself, I hear comments regarding Pamela Anderson (of whom I am not equipped to be compared to), Pam Beasley from the Office (who is awesome yet fictional) or the cooking spray (that has gotten icky, quickly).

Since moving to Cincinnati, Troy and I are on the hunt for a new church. Yesterday, we went to the community church in our town. When it came time to greet others around us, the woman in front of me turned around to introduced herself. The woman looked to be about 60 years old and cheerfully told me that her name was . . . Pam. Yep. Then when she turned to introduce me to her husband, she excitedly told him that she met another Pam. His response, "Wow, I thought they stopped making those."

This is the issue I run into all the time. If I meet a Pam she is usually about my mom's age. Don't get me wrong, I like my name. I like that people have heard of it but that it is not too common. I can usually find it on a coffee cup if I was interested in purchasing such kitschy souvenirs. I like that I can walk into a room and usually be the only Pamela there . . . unless I happen to be at a Baker's Square for the four o'clock dinner rush.

Someday, I will grow into my name. My kids and grandkids will talk about the name Pamela like my generation talks about the names Betty or Helen, as "Old People Names." And at that moment, I will not have to wiggle my toes to check my fit. I will have grown into my name. 

I hope I live that long.