I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes me laugh lately. And, not the polite, socially acceptable chuckle you deploy in meetings when someone says “let’s circle back,” but the real laugh. The slightly unhinged, slightly inappropriate, possibly-should-be-checked-by-a-professional kind of laugh.

The kind that startles the dogs.

Because yes, my dogs are funny. Objectively funny. Not in the “all dogs are cute” way, but in the “why are you barking at a leaf like it personally insulted your ancestors?” way. They contain multitudes including bravery (against deer), terror (of fireworks), and a deep suspicion of wind. Watching them oscillate between fierce protector and trembling Victorian child? Comedy.

But animals alone do not sustain a person. No, my humor palette is broader and perhaps more concerning.

I enjoy black humor. The darker, the better. The kind that makes people pause and say, “Are we allowed to laugh at that?” To which I mentally respond with we already are. It’s either laugh or spiral, and I have a full calendar.

Then there’s dry humor. Understated. Barely there. The humor that slips into a conversation like a well-dressed introvert, says something devastatingly funny, and leaves before anyone can process it. My 17-year-old son has mastered this art. His wit is so sharp it occasionally feels like a light emotional papercut. I’m both proud and slightly afraid. I created this. This is my legacy.

And then there’s me physically existing in space.

Or, rather, me not existing very well in space.

I bump into walls. Not metaphorically. Literally. Doorframes, countertops, the occasional piece of furniture that has not moved in years and yet somehow surprises me. It’s less “graceful adult” and more “background character in a slapstick montage.” I used to be concerned. Now I just factor it into my personality.

I also laugh at the absurdity of life’s plot twists. Like planning a perfectly curated trip only to have it unravel in under 24 hours. Or trying to impose order on chaos and being met with a firm, universe-issued “no.” There’s something deeply funny about realizing you are not, in fact, in charge despite your color-coded calendar.

I laugh at nostalgia sneaking up on me. Rubber duckies. Teen rom-coms. The emotional whiplash of remembering who I was, who I thought I’d be, and who I am now which includes standing in a kitchen, eating gummy bears, wondering if I’ve always been like this or if this is a recent development.

I laugh at the surreal. The idea that somewhere, someone is probably convinced AI will end us all by 2027, and my first instinct is not to panic, but to wonder what outfit I’ll wear when Skynet arrives. (Something flattering. One must have standards.)

I laugh at the small rebellions. Jumping in puddles. Saying the slightly inappropriate thing. Wearing the metaphorical and sometimes literal costume just because it amuses me. There’s joy in refusing to be entirely serious in a world that is aggressively trying to make you so.

And maybe that’s the throughline. I laugh at the tension between control and chaos. Between who we’re supposed to be and who we actually are. Between the plan and the reality.

Also, I laugh when my dog barks at nothing and then looks at me like, you saw that too, right?

I didn’t.

But I’m laughing anyway.