Very few of my personal preferences make any logical sense. For example, who hates the beach? This guy, that’s who.
First of all, it’s outside which is already a negative as I am what you would call, ‘indoorsy.’ I dislike hauling stuff under any circumstances, crowds make me nuts, and don’t even get me started on sand. Where most find joy in the beauty and endless activities a beach can offer, I see it as a punishment.
Quirky would be a good way to describe me. I use humor at any chance I get. To make someone laugh, to lighten a mood, to hide my fears. If I can disarm someone enough to make them giggle, I have reciprocally put myself at ease. It is my coping mechanism.
I am one of those people you either get, or you don’t. Either you are on my wavelength, or you think I may be a few cards short of a full deck. I use my humor-o-meter to gauge everyone new that I meet, and I wanted my cancer medical team to fall in line.
I’m not saying they all had to be comedians, but I thought if they didn’t ‘get’ me, it would be hard for me to go through this odyssey with them.
Luckily for me, the breast surgeon and plastics guy seemed totally on board with the Grancer Crazy Train. Perhaps every time I leave the room they contemplate whether or not to call psych on me, but I think they appreciate my levity.
The oncologist wasn’t quite the same situation. I met with a very highly regarded woman and could tell immediately that she was not amused by my antics. This gave me great pause. How am I supposed to get through chemotherapy with someone who doesn’t get my humor? Sometimes when I’m at my weakest my humor is all I have left.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my medical team needn’t have razor sharp wit. What I do need them to have is brilliance. The oncologist is brilliant. She has the knowledge to cure me. Who cares if she thinks my jokes are funny? She is going to keep me alive.
When I was diagnosed someone asked me if there was anything I wanted, anything that would make me feel better. A normal person might say, ice cream, a vacation, a pony, even. Not me. I said without hesitation that I wanted one of those inflatable things that flops around in front of car dealerships.
Since the first time I saw one, I have had a love affair with Air Dancers. That’s what they are called. They are a real thing. I don’t remember the first time I saw one, but I knew instantly that they were my spirit car dealership tchotcke.
Look at these guys- their entire purpose is to flop around with a shit-ass eating grin on their face. They fall down and triumphantly get back up. Over and over and over. That’s it. That’s all they do.
Why this particular nylon advertising tool resonates with me so deeply is a mystery, but I have to assume it has to do with its simple message. Not the message that is written on the Air Dancer saying, ‘Volvo Close Out Sale’, but the message that this ever-smiling guy flops over constantly but pops right back up again and again. Time after time. If he can do it, I can too.
I dare you not to smile the next time you drive by your local Honda dealership, or my house, as my darling husband had this guy made in China and sent to keep me inspired (& piss off my neighbors).
You love the beach, I love Air Dancers. I never said I was normal.