As a kid, I enjoyed watching Nick at Nite, and one of my
favorite shows was The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Mary was funny and charismatic in an achievable way. Even as a kid, I knew she
was far sweeter than I would ever be, but there was still something about Mary
that kept her in the realm of possibility as a role model.
Plus, she had a great life. She had that hilarious best
friend, Rhoda. She had a great apartment. She had a great job with great
coworkers like Lou and Murray (I could do without Ted). There was something
romantic about her independence. And in a strange way, daughter of a working
mom and granddaughter of a working grandmother, I expected my life to be
similar to Mary’s.
And now it is. At 26, I am a single, oft-bobbed brunette
working an unexpected job in a city. All I’m missing is a great hat to throw
and a catchy theme song.
But life is not what I expected. As a kid, I saw the fun and
freedom in Mary’s life; the hardship was always resolved with a good cry, a
couple laughs, and half an hour. Real life is so different when you get the bad
news that the extra literature class you thought you’d be picking up was
canceled for lack of students, so you’ll be making a few hundred dollars less
per month. Or when he doesn’t call after the date you thought had gone really well. Or when you find a nail in your
new tire and you’re already late for work.
Those things, in some ways, make my life even more like
Mary’s. What was funny in the show—all the frustrations and challenges and
disappointments—were really just real life presented with witty dialogue. It
was all a play on perspective. When life begins feeling too heavy, the
challenge is not so much in getting through it. Life is constantly changing
and, therefore, as long as we keep breathing, our situations will keep altering,
bringing both more good and more bad. The challenge lies in keeping our sense
of humor throughout it all.
In retrospect, I find humorous the story of the three weeks
I spent in grad school with only $10 to my name. I tell the story like I’d wear
a badge of honor, because it was my struggle and I overcame it, and we can
laugh at whatever doesn’t kill us. But it’s also only funny because it’s over,
because I’m not still staring at the oatmeal cylinder in the kitchen, wondering
whether I should eat it or save it for my pet rabbit, debating which of us will
run out of food first. The hunger pains of a few missed meals have waned, and
what I’m left with is the realization that, while difficult, one can subsist on
so little for so long.
It’s inevitable that our sense of humor will weaken in times
of stress. Sometimes all we can realistically do is hunker down until things
stabilize. But if we lose sight of the good things—our Rhodas, our apartments,
our independence—then we risk losing our sense of humor as well. And if we lose
that, then our struggle is for naught, for if we emerge from strife with
nothing other than bitterness, then we overlook the strength we have developed
along the way.
