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Column: Writing on the Wall

Let's clown around


People don’t take me seriously, and that’s OK sometimes.

I know it’s my own fault. Even though I have a respectable job, drive an ordinary mom-mobile, and live in a mortgaged-to-teeth home, I don’t act my age, whatever that means. I make jokes, act goofy, and am fond of self-deprecating humor. I have more fun than any ex-hippie grandmother should. Don’t get me wrong — I won’t do anything where my feet need to leave the ground, like skydiving, bungee jumping or even taking a ride on the latest stomach-churning roller coaster. But while other baby boomers dream about retirement and the early-bird specials in Florida, I often wonder what it would be like to join the circus. Seriously.

I wouldn’t really run away — I love my suburban life and my family too much — but I’d like to experience the sights, sounds and smells up close. Yes, elephant dung mixed with cotton candy is a heady scent for me. Sawdust and cannon smoke make me swoon. Clowns are funny, ringmasters are handsome, and the world is one big train of wild animals and very flexible people in neon outfits.

Maybe it’s because they all seem so happy. I’m sure circus performers have serious life issues like the rest of us, but their job is to make others smile — where else can you get that kind of service?

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