As a young girl, I did not watch a lot of television.  I remember episodes of “Twilight Zone” and  a few other shows, which we watched as a family.  My brothers liked The Three Stooges, and I recall “Leave it To Beaver” and much earlier, “Father Knows Best”.  But on my own, I devoured what I would call “girl shows”.  Hayley Mills, Patty Duke and Sandra Dee figured in these silly gems.

One of them — Sandy Dee, I think — cast her fluttering eyelashes at the hero and said, “Sir, are you laughing at me in sheer delight, or otherwise?”  Of course, the answer pleased her:  “Sheer delight.”  And that exchange has stayed with me through the years, not because the movie particularly impacted me but because I’ve never really understood the difference between the two types of humor.

As a consequence, I’ve been branded as humor-impaired, thin-skinned, and worse.  In addition, the light-hearted ribbing of others has prompted a whole life-time of complaining in a category all its own from my mouth to their ears.  That’s one category of complaining all by itself:  Grumbling about the good-natured sallies endemic to life on earth.

I do contend that some categories of life’s condition should be off-limits.  I would not pick family violence, rape, drug addiction and alcoholism, and the immutable differences between people as the subjects of humor.  They just aren’t funny to me, though I suppose if someone wants to make fun of themselves for being in one of these circumstances or having one of these characteristics, they have the right.  I  crowned myself the mascot of the Consulate Cripples, the softball team of the bar near my place of employment during graduate school.  But when I think back, I wonder if the team itself should have picked that name; they certainly would not in 2014, even if nobody said anything in 1978.

But I’m not talking about these broad areas of humor.  I’m talking about everyday teasing, the give and take of life.  I’ve spent 58 years with ruffled feathers, and I am looking back, wondering:  Was it all in sheer delight, or, as I then contended, otherwise?  From my perspective, eight months into my year without complaining, 2/3 of a year through some intense self-reflection,  I’m fairly certain it most often arose from sheer delight, I feel kind of bad about missing out on the fun all those years, and even worse about the lashings that I levied on innocent folks.  I wish I could make amends; I wish I could find every one of those unsuspecting victims of my bad temper, wrap my arms around them and tell them how sorry I am.  I can’t, I know; but maybe somehow the universe will send a little kiss from me to them, to let them know I’m sorry.

I can’t relive the days that have gone.  I can’t really make amends.  But I can live differently.  I can assume the good intentions of those around me.  I’m going to try.  Someone advised me once to do that, someone whom I dearly love.  I viewed his advice as suspect, and didn’t follow it. It was good advice, though. I’ve taken it to heart at long last.  And I’m super stoked about the next six decades.  They ought to be a lot of laughs.