“You think you’re funnier than I do,” Gretchen told me one day, without realizing the implications of her words. At first I thought she was just being rude, or funny, or both. But those words have haunted me since. At the time I didn’t realize that she spoke the truth. Frankly, I didn’t want to consider it.

The truth is that I do think I am funny. This is clearly a problem when you consider my already bloated ego. One bad thing is that I really am funny sometimes. When other people laugh, it only encourages me. Notwithstanding the boost to my ego, I don’t want to be funny. That statement isn’t entirely true, so let me explain.

I like being seen as someone who can be funny, and who is a moderately fun guy most of the time. I don’t want to be seen (or be) a clown, but I am afraid that this is exactly what I have become. As evidence of this last I will cite at least three more experiences that seem to support my frightening conclusion:

  1. Roy told me that I am a crowd pleaser
  2. Lauritz didn’t believe that I was introverted when I took an online personality test
  3. Caitlin Skinner (a friend of Kristin’s) told me that I was funny after having known me for about 15 minutes

Each of these experiences upset me and I haven’t been able to forget them. Each caused me to wonder if I am giving people the impression that I want to give. I do not want to be seen as a clown. It’s just not how I want to be. I don’t mind (and actually rather like) people thinking I am funny as a minor part of my personality. I don’t like it being the primary or first thing they notice. I have always seen myself as rather sober, serious, and even slightly melancholic. I feel I am able to have fun if the circumstances warrant but am, on the whole, more somber than silly. I readily admit that I do many silly things, but I used to view these as nearly superfluous portions of my personality rather than the quintessence thereof. I may have to rethink this image. Such a thing is never easy.

Being funny for me—and perhaps for everyone else—is a matter of survival rather than desire. When I am in a stressful situation (e.g. meeting someone new, especially someone with whom I will have prolonged interaction) I make jokes to loosen the tension. It helps me cope with a new and wholly uncomfortable situation. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that many class clowns are really introverted, or at the very least rather shy. Unfortunately the habits that we form when we first interact with someone tend to remain even after we have known them for years. Some times I am able to overcome these initial tendencies and “be myself”, but as time passes it seems I have become less able to do so. Either that, or I have genuinely become more of a clown.

So what’s the problem with people thinking I am funny? After all if people think you are an idiot, it becomes easier to impress them, right? The problem is, I usually don’t enjoy being funny. I feel obligated. I can’t recall anyone ever saying, “Gosh, you used to be funny, what happened?” or anything of that nature. Nevertheless, I do feel obligated to be funny, much like I sometimes feel obligated to complain about doing the dishes when my mother asks. I feel it is expected of me, even though it is not the desired state of affairs for anyone. As with most things, the reality of what people expect of me doesn’t matter, only my perception of it.

I am often told that people like other people who are positive and upbeat. I have come to subconsciously accept this as the ideal. We should enjoy the company of optimists more than pessimists. We should enjoy the company of vibrant, dynamic, confident, gregarious people more than that of relaxed, mellow, or serious people. Right? Isn’t that the way God intended things? Or, is it merely human nature to like such things? Or perhaps the sort of people who like vibrant people are those that make up such rules. After all how many inspirational speeches have you heard from someone who didn’t like being in front of an audience? I dare say you haven’t heard any more than I—at least not about how to make friends and influence people. Is it not possible that some people like being around mellow, not funny, people? I know I do, or at least I think I do. Certainly I like being with fun people occasionally, but I also like, even need, being with relaxed and serious people. I doubt many people like being with true pessimists, but I think many do enjoy the company of people who are less-than-chipper. After all, what is there inherent in us (meaning all of us rather than just some of us) that seeks fun?

In many ways this essay has been in a constant state of revision since sometime on my mission. I learned on my mission that people are supposed to have friends and enjoy other people. In fact that is one of the most important things on this earth. That realization was one of the hardest things in my life to deal with because I didn’t want to believe it. After I came to accept that (albeit imperfectly still) I have been slowly taught more areas in which my natural instincts were wrong. I am grateful that the Lord hasn’t given up on teaching me yet. No doubt related thoughts will continue to occupy my mind for some time to come.

I had hoped that writing this entry would allow me to come to terms with and embrace my growing levity since this more socially acceptable. It hasn’t, in fact I am perhaps more disturbed by it now than I was before. Barring that, and perhaps preferentially, I hoped it would help me find a way to stem the tide. I haven’t thought of anything yet. Perhaps at the very least it will help others realize that I am not (in the sense of the Spanish ’ser’ To Be in the sense of some permanent or intrinsic property rather than one which is temporary or based on the current situation at least) funny.