Featherweight

Please forgive me in advance, for I’m about to get all Jack Handy on your ass.

When I think of winter’s end, I imagine a bear emerging from hibernation, lean and hungry. I think perhaps I’m much the same, minus the hungry part. I am indeed physically much leaner than I was at the beginning of fall, but I’m also lighter in other ways. I have fewer belongings (thanks in large part to the cretins who stole a fair amount of my worldly possessions when my back was turned), fewer obligations and, frankly, fewer ties with others, some of which I’d thought were insoluble.

Prolonged illness has a way of burning off the fat in one’s life, it seems. I suppose this can be a good thing. Who wants to remain friends in name only, for example? And isn’t it lovely to know who your rocks really are? (I think I know now, and I’m not a bit surprised in retrospect.) But illness also has a way of choking off our passion, of stifling our senses. There was a time, not long ago at all, when my emotions lay so close to the surface it took only a look or a word to elicit giggles or tears. Now, not so much. I may be profoundly sad just thinking about this, but it’s more of a dull ache. I hope you understand what I mean. Frankly, I miss the old me, and I curse the people and situations responsible for smothering her. However, too much retrospection and seething isn't particularly productive, so I'll keep my curses mostly to myself, for now.

Anyway, spring’s supposed to be a happy time, a time of new life, new hope and … new jokes. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard some good ones, like these and these. Show us whatcha got!