Just Joking

I fancy myself a comedienne. I also think of myself as fairly young. I can be wrong in so many ways.

My husband joined the Army late in life. "Late in life" is relative when it comes to the Army. I usually think of late in life as 60s or 70s – retirement age. But in the Army, late in life is anything over 30. So, when my husband joined the Army at the ripe young age of 39, he was considered ancient.

When he enlisted we were living in New York City where people often didn't have their shit together – stable job, stable living situation, stable relationship – until sometime in their 30s. It was also quite common for people to have kids around 35-40. Being in our late thirties, we were in the norm.

But in the Army, we are freaks. Everyone, I mean EVERYONE, has kids. At our age, many people are already grandparents. This is not New York.



In New York, the first question people ask you (after your name) is "what do you do?" In the Army, the first question (after your name) is "do you have kids?"

No. Awkward silence. End of conversation.

Being the comedienne I think I am, I decided I needed to have a joke at the ready. "Do you have kids?" would be followed a witty zinger that would answer the question, get a laugh, and keep the conversation moving forward, allowing us to find our common ground elsewhere. Through humor I would transform from the pitiable childless woman into the sassy life of the party.

I thought about all the things parents do for their kids. Laundry. Cleaning. Cooking. Instructing on the finer points of life, like being responsible with money and not putting empty boxes back in the pantry when done with them. It occurred to me that I do many of those things already. For my husband. I may not have kids, I thought, but I have a husband.

(Husbands, by the way, are perhaps the worst kind of children: old enough to know better. But I digress.)

One day I was pulling weeds from my plot at the community garden. It was hot, tiring work and I was bored. I started chatting with the couple in the plot adjacent to mine. We were all first time gardeners – experimenting and learning as we went. But that's where our common ground ended. They had a gorgeous plot with burgeoning vegetables and effective drainage ditches. My few vegetables that managed to break ground saw bitter ends: six heads of lettuce (bolted), three carrots (stunted and inedible), eight melons (dead on the vine) – and my ditches, which had taken me hours to shovel out, were little more than shallow ruts. Their garden had stakes and trellises with twirling vines. Mine had weeds with angry purple stems. They were working side by side. I was slaving away while my husband sat at home playing video games in the air conditioning. In short, I hated them.

But they were nice. And we chit chatted about this and that as their three children sang and danced around them like little garden sprites.

The dreaded moment came. "Do you have kids?"

No, I didn't. I did not have three adorable, lively children like they did. I did not have their thriving garden. I did not have a loving spouse by my side. All I had was my sense of humor, damnit, and I was going to use it.

"Just one," I said. "He's 41 and he's an Engineer in the Army." The rimshot that sounded in my mind echoed in the stony silence around me. The seconds that followed stretched into days.

"Wow" came the awestruck reply. My cheeks and neck burned as the meaning hit me. They thought I was serious.

At the tender age of 39, when I thought maybe I could pass for early- to mid- thirties, I learned instead that I came off as a vibrant 60. I rushed to get the words out, to put a tourniquet on the embarrassment that threatened to take my last shred of self-esteem. "I meant my husband. It's a joke."

They gave an obligatory chuckle and explained, "I was going to say! I want to know what your secret is!"

My self-esteem was as desiccated as my garden plot. My hilarity as barren.

Days later, when I could think about the exchange logically and without feeling a hot flush of shame, I knew I seriously had to rework that joke. Not in order to give the gift of laughter to others, but to protect my bruised ego. Because those pesky questions about kids weren't going away anytime soon and I clearly wasn't getting any younger.

I finally have my punchline.

"Do you have kids?"

"Just the one I'm married to."

And then hopefully we can move on to something else.