This about sums up every conversation I've ever had with my roommate.

As I told someone recently, behind every great individual stands a killer sideshow. Robin is mine. We're like the female Wayne and Garth. Together we've thrown parties, devised schemes, and lit the world (see: the ant farm in the front yard) on fire.

I've lived with her for 2-1/2 years, and let me tell you, it's been enlightening. We've always said we should host a series of webisodes, it'd be like What Not to Wear meets Mystery Science Theatre 3000. We'd host live chats and if someone asked a question we didn't like, one would lean over all pretentious-like and say YOU DON'T HAVE TO ANSWER THAT. We'd dish out all kinds of self-help tips, have special guests (our mom's, duh, they know everything) and throw all of our friends under the bus in the name of entertainment.

One of these days it'll come to fruition and the world will be ours. Or at least a small corner of it. Probably a condemned gas station, let's be honest. But it will be all ours! We'll have supersuits and everything.

Very soon, Robin and I embark on a journey of epic proportions as the producer and stage manager for a local theatre production. I've served as choreographer for this same show, which opens next week. This is where we find out if we're capable of real teamwork. Ten bucks says we get a few hours into it before one of us gets on the headset and serenades the crew with the soulful tunes of The Staple Singers, and before you know it, somebody misses a cue so insults are hurled and blame is deflected and in the words of Taylor Swift, WHY YOU GOTTA BE SO MEAN?

But first, a few things to know about Robin. Here is a woman who keeps disinfectant wipes in her purse, is violently allergic to avocados, and never remembers not to wear baggy sweatshirts to the airport. When we went sailing last summer, she hopped off the boat and said I DID IT! I SAILED! I'M A SAILOR! AND NOW I HAVE CRABS! And if she had a movie character doppelganger, it would be King Julius from Madagascar. Mostly because she's bossy, and because she routinely stops traffic by throwing up her arms and saying EVERYONE SHUT UP, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY!

That covers all the important stuff.

Over the course of our 4-year friendship, we've exchanged hundreds of text messages, emails and chat sessions. So in honor of the show we'll be running in a few short days, I give you a few days of just us.


---

(the day before the wedding of a mutual friend)

A: What are you wearing tomorrow?

R: Clothes.

A: That's a relief.

R: Obviously I will be showing off the ladies in my new demi cup push up bra. I have 3 favorite dresses I was going to choose from. I wish I could wear heels. Sigh. Maybe I will, just for giggles, and you can carry me home if I break my ankle. Because you LOVE taking care of me when I am sick.

A: You burned me out this last time around. I'm done.

R: Oh yes, crackers and 7up was so hard to get.

A: And a week of bitching. Don't forget that one.

R: Well, I was sick! I can bitch.

A: For a day! That's all you get! Then you move on!

R: Let’s just remember the first 1-1/2 years we lived together and you were sick every WEEK! Raise your hand if you remember that!

A: Oh sure, but did I bitch the way you do? No.

R: Yes! Absolutely. Every chance you got.

A: When you learn to bitch graciously, I'll stop teasing.

R: HOW DO YOU BITCH GRACIOUSLY...I want to learn that skill.

A: I am so never going to get married, not after I've so successfully lived with and learned to deal with you. I can't do it again!

R: I know. Me either. So, I guess we just get cats.

(pause)

A: I don't like cats.

The Top 10 Questions I'm Asked on a Regular Basis.

When you are one of eight children, homeschooled through age 16, working for a private university (though you yourself spent two years at a community college), and have come out on the other side somewhat well-balanced, people love to ask questions. Here are some of my favorites.

1. Were your parents crazy? 

Yes. Still are, in fact. 

2. Are you Mormon?

No. But out of curiosity, what would you do if I said yes...

3. Are you Catholic? 

No. What, are you writing a book?

4. What was it like growing up in a large family? 

Relative, I suppose. It was all we knew. It never seemed strange to us that we had only one bathroom -- one's process of beautification was limited to your room. You'd be amazed how this frees up the john.

We had a militant chore chart, assigned laundry days, a shower schedule (DO NOT MESS WITH THE SHOWER HOUR), our names written on our bath towels, the list goes on. It was like summer camp, only Mom didn't throw your mail (and the underwear tucked loosely inside) from a second-story mess hall balcony.

If you think that's extreme, try living peacefully with 10 people under any other circumstances. Even if you get everyone to clean up after themselves, there's still the issue of ten people + surplus coming and going and leaving any number of default messes behind. That's to say nothing of the mud and food and hair and random crap floating around. If we take into account the times my siblings cracked their heads open or snacked on too much cheese, you can add blood and vomit to that list. Gross, but true. YOU ASKED.

Until I'd moved out and had roommates, I thought everyone knew you weren't supposed to shower for longer than 5 minutes. Or that you always mix an extra can of water into the apple juice. And don't place glass next to glass in the dishwasher, it'll break. And under no uncertain circumstances do you ever flush tampons.

5. Do you want a big family?

Let's pretend for a second that 26 is the height of knowledge, I mean it's sure taught me a thing or two. One such being that my preferences and consequent ability to handle them have changed consistently, so while right now I can't imagine having any children lest I royally ^#%$ it up, there was a time when I would've thought I wanted several. I suppose my answer at this point, is that I am up for whatever the Lord chooses to hand me, and I really do mean it. Not just saying it so you think I'm holy, Lord help me. I can admit to being a control freak in just about every other way, but the last time I messed with divine intervention and ignored my gut, my family added a name to our s**t list, I dropped the F-bomb at my grandmother's funeral, and we all unfriended a few people on Facebook.

(But for those who are wondering: my aunts make excellent drinking buddies.)

As for my desire to impart my wealth of experience and otherwise subject young people to my glowing personality... that's what I have CYT for.

6. Did you have to share everything?

Yes. And in the early days, even showers. Sharing is caring. Why is this a big deal...

(And when I tell people I was home-schooled...)

7. What?! I would never have guessed! 
Really? You're the first.

7a. What did you do for fun??
I read books, learned to bake, played outside, and did you just equate school with fun? 

We didn't own a TV so I didn't grow up watching cartoons or even Little House on the Prairie, though we had two computers so I knew everything about the Oregon Trail. I could've made it three times over with all of my oxen intact. 

You died from dysentery, didn't you.

I stayed busy, happy, and out of jail/off the evening news. All that without ever having a curfew.

7b. Did you dress like a homely homeschooler?
Most definitely. Did you dress like an entitled public schooler? (ADDENDUM: Or, as my sweet cousin pointed out, were you a public schooler who dressed like a homeschooler? At least I had the title.)

8. You must be really good at sports. (Said as a statement, because they know my siblings. They're that sure.)

I can't dribble a basketball or hit a baseball, and if you ever throw one at me I'll probably run away. Though I sat in the bleachers for countless games over the years, I'm not a cheerleader so don't call me one. I'm really more of a mascot. But despite not understanding a thing about sports or why winning is so important, I'm a proud sister and I can't believe my siblings' talent sometimes. I could never do what they do, but I suppose that's what renders most things significant, that we consider others' natural gifts somewhat brilliant and remarkable. And isn't that fair? They are, after all.

9. Sooo...if you didn't do sports, what DID you do?

I sang. I learned to dance. I got a job. I wore dresses, took pictures of everything, filled journals, filed my own taxes, went to college at 16 -- but all that to say, I grew up in somewhat of a bubble. I knew it and I was okay with it. My siblings grew up with a different set of standards; they knew how to channel pain and criticism into excellence; I was far too sensitive, I'd have melted into a pool of anxiety and certain death.

I learned those lessons in other ways. 

But on the whole, I enjoyed an existence wherein I never felt like success was anything but relative. I did what made me happy; I still do. And though I have my days of feeling useless, like my tipping of the talent scale is right up there between Katy Perry and those guys who sang the theme song to Friends--and that is by no means a wide spectrum--I remember the facts: my siblings came to all of my shows, regardless of whether they understood why I loved it. They clapped the loudest and thoroughly embarrassed me. To this day, they don't have to know the details to know that I'm doing what I love and that it's a great privilege.


10. No, really. Were your parents crazy?
Let's review. At one point they had five teenagers under the same roof. Between all eight of us, we probably went through (see: totaled) 6 or 7 cars in ten years. Speeding tickets, mangled deers, and stationery objects all played a part in our troubles, whether to serve as expensive lessons or just to swipe our rearview mirrors (also an expensive lesson). 

We suffered no long-standing injuries or mutinies, nobody ever left the house buck stark naked, and we had plenty to eat -- I consider my parents to be saints. 

But if our stupidity is directly responsible for the state of their sanity, then yes, they're out of their damn minds.

Life is not like Vera & Rosemary: my waist is bigger, and you suck at tap dancing.

I have these friends, right. They're pretty great. We take blood oaths, finish each others' sentences, call every day, fit stereotypes, look great without makeup, and never go to the gym. Gyms aren't glamorous. Neither is the way you look when applying mascara.

Ooooohh, wait.

The honest truth: I don't just love my friends for their great hair or their infectious laughter, though both are true. I appreciate them for their real-ness, their acceptance, and their shared affinity for G&T. That they are hard-working, loyal, talented, considerate and hopelessly funny, and that when we sit down to play the game of LIFE, I can count on any number of belly laughs. Mostly because by the time it's all over, I'm an accountant with no children, but I'll be damned if I didn't win the Humanibleepingtarian Award and find the cure for the common cold.

I sometimes get to thinking about all the honest reasons why we're friends, and have stayed that way through ugly stuff. It has nothing to do with the aesthetically-pleasing or even what makes a good story. They're so much better.

But. They are that way because the unapologetic reality of it is that we don't always fight fair. We don't function as mature adults when one gets a boyfriend. We don't share a bedside manner (those of us who have one). We complain about 'the skinny bitch'. We don't tell each other everything. We disagree on life choices. We get tired of each other. We are dysfunctional, impatient, and sardonic. We don't always speak the truth in love, especially when it involves boys and how you shouldn't be dating them if you know you'd 86 their ass should someone better come along. You heartless wench.

Sometimes, when crisis hits, we're not there right away. Sometimes we're poor communicators and don't let one another know what we need. We don't always try hard enough, or respond fast enough, or get excited about the same things. We hurt feelings and hold grudges, even if not for long. We give and endure the silent treatment (not the elementary I-hate-your-stinkin-guts kind, but the passive aggressive, I'm-a-grown-adult-and-never- learned-to-cope-with-my-emotions kind) and sometimes we make the same mistakes over and over again.
 

We move far away and have kids, hoping that with the all-too-often silent distance will be the understanding that with the changing of seasons comes the changing of relationships. We know that despite it all, the door is always open and the freedom is there to say anything we need, without fear of retribution. We accept all of this and we adapt, because it's better than nothing but also because we know it's right. It has to be.


We don't judge each other for losing our cool in really unattractive ways sometimes. We want to be a part of what you're a part of simply because it matters to you. But we don't always say we're sorry. We don't love one another well all the time. Hell, we don't even LIKE each other all the time. We are ignorant and sometimes insensitive. But we trust that our fractured selves will be accepted and that our desire (and hopefully, our ability) to let our circumstances make us better people will be recognized. We don't always know what to do when you call in the middle of the night with bad news, but we find out. We have different definitions for what it means to fight for someone, we sometimes move considerably backwards before we move forward, but we keep moving. When one takes more than they give, we compensate. When one screws up in a big way, we remember that we, too, have screwed up in embarrassing and ugly ways.

When cancer strikes, we sit in the park and don't ask if you want to talk. We go to the viewing AND the memorial and laugh when you almost fall down the stairs and show your goodies to the Catholic church. We cancel plans in favor of sitting at home with you even though you're awful company, for as we've collectively learned one pained experience at a time, the ability to exist in present silence is one of life's great healers.

We argue that just because we're laughing doesn't mean we're making fun. But seriously, if you could only see yourself...

We cry with you over the phone and sometimes on your front porch -- that's called getting down in the mud. We tell and re-tell the story about how we fell off the curb and broke a bone, because we know it will take your mind off the hurt you are experiencing.

We love to hate The Bachelor. We dance with the drunk, handsy guys so you don't have to. We drive great distances, only occasionally complaining about the price of gas. We take 'friends tell friends' very seriously, especially where the need to wax your eyebrows is concerned. And we admit that when you get married, we might complain about the bridesmaid dresses but will wear them anyway, because we love you. 

We could probably agree that our high value of friendship came at the price of involuntarily finding the break. That somewhere along the line, we were made to feel unimportant by someone who claimed to have our best in mind. And when we found those who showed us we matter, and continually prove it to us every day, we called them our best friends and threw back a glass of chardonnay. 

We're grateful that 'being a good friend' is relative, that nobody can tell us who we are because we already know. 

So, it's to these women I say: thank you for sharing your space. You know who you are. Thank you for your consistency, your love for people, your willingness to go out of your way, your genuine concern for the greater good, your priorities, your ability to see the forest through the trees, your devotion to prayer in all things, and your comments about going out in public looking like a hipster even though I refuse to be called one. You have permission to fall apart, hold it together, move forward, move backward, eat empty carbs, fail miserably, put up, and/or shut up -- I will love you as best I can. Fighting for and with you has been one big, fat teaching moment. Given what I know now, I hope I never take it for granted but I'm sorry if I slip. In fact I'm sorry if I've slipped in the past and not asked your forgiveness. It's not my heart, to wound by omission. I'm acutely aware of my failures, though I'm sure I have more, and your grace is humbling. You've made me substantially better, and I thank you. 

I could not have put up with me for this long.

When this happens to someone else, I will totally say OH HONEY, SHUT UP AND DRINK YOUR PROTEIN. THIS AIN'T MY FIRST RODEO.

True story: 2012 is not off to a glowing start. Unless you call experimenting with the food processor to see what retains its flavor when pureed, a good time. I do not.

This will forever be remembered as the time I starved myself and learned all about chompers. I've been unable to think straight for the last week, but here's what I recall.

Around the new year, I began experiencing headaches and jaw pain, for which I took Advil and muscled through. I'm no stranger to headaches, I grew up with seven of them. But eventually I sought out my dentist, who found nothing. I didn't question him, because I've no reason not to. Plus he's funny and he likes to narrate the Food Network, especially when they cook with lentils. Who cares about lentils? I digress. I then went to my MD, who said it was TMJ and gave me anti-inflammatories. At that point I was already having trouble eating, and was on a self-imposed liquid diet to reduce the pain. Leave it to the girl who started her workout regimen in November to avoid looking like one of those people who makes new year's resolutions about getting in shape. Instead, I sat on my couch while my friends ate Panda Express, making myself feel better by saying things like GREAT IDEA! I'LL JUST SIT HERE ON MY ASS AND LOSE WEIGHT. WAY TO GO, SELF.

The jaw pain was like nothing I'd ever felt, a sharp and nauseating pain that I could predict based on how much talking/eating I'd done. (And if you think it's funny to make a joke about how this must've happened because I talk a lot,  you can join the club. Then get lost.) Girls night, that was a real kick. A few bleu cheese fries and I spent the next 10 minutes holding my Long Island Iced Tea to my face.

Eventually the pain morphed into an intense, radiating feeling beneath one of my molars. Nerve pain is the worst, especially when you know it's because it's totally getting ready to leave you, and this is their way of making sure you don't forget all the great times you had. Cue a day spent on the couch, my mouth propped open, unable to swallow without pain, watching dumb movies while icing my jaw.

P.S. Dumb movies without fatty and sugary snacks, are that much worse. Or better, depending on which way you look at it. Mandy Moore, eat your heart out.

My roommate is one of those who self-diagnoses every problem by looking it up on WebMD, so her money was on the twin growing behind my ear. Or certain death, in which case she suggested drilling a hole in my temple. No problem, she totally saw it on Grey's Anatomy. 

She needs her own reality show.

The next morning was a bit of a blur. It started out in the dentist's office, then I cried, then I saw the endodontist, who broke the news that I needed a root canal and prescribed some strong meds in the meantime. Now, I'm not a huge painkiller person, but these ones were FASCINATING in that they rendered me completely rational, relaxed me to the point of agreeing with everything you say, and unusually tolerant of certain TV shows. 

I watched The Bachelor, people.

Of course those same meds also made me nauseous, so there I was: hungry but unable to eat, and also unable to take meds unless I had food in me. A terribly mean trick to play on someone, especially when I've more than paid my dentist tithe in years past. Who prescribes meds I can't take unless I want to vomit? Which is also super painful BY THE WAY.  I want to find out in what counter-intuitive vicious world he lives, because I am blowing that shit wide open.

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to get a root canal, but I practically danced into that office. Upon leaving, the assistant warned me that I might experience some discomfort in the form of achy, sore gums but I was all LADY, COMPARED TO THE WEEKEND I JUST HAD, UNLESS I POP OUT A KID OR A HERNIA I'M FAIRLY CERTAIN IT CAN ONLY GO UP FROM HERE.


She said I made an excellent point.

Playing the drum in your own school band.

Having just wrapped another year, I've concluded that "tough %$@#" is just another part of growing up. Being an adult is hard. Too hard, I figure, not to do what makes you happy. And there are so many definitions of the word, but I think we all know for ourselves. It can be as easy as making friends with someone like Katie, my sister's best friend, who is a walking caffeine pill. Her energy makes her a brilliant sideshow, and we joke that if she ever got pulled over, we'd pay to see the look on the police officer's face when the breathalyzer results come back negative and they realize that's just how she is.

This is the same girl who once thought it'd be fun to fake a mugging in Bellevue Square.

See? Happy.

At the end of the day, I've just put all of my time and energy into 8-12 hours comprised of moments which, if I'm paying attention, are worth their weight in gold. Moments like spontaneous conversations with my professors, who like to remind me that I'm not as old as I think I am. That just because I like the Beatles and can recite Ferris Bueller's Day Off, doesn't give me license to whine about my age. See, I'm stuck between being a young college student and one who teaches them, yet am surrounded by both on a daily basis. And when I get called to the carpet for calling myself old, I feel the sudden obligation to spout a litany of pop culture references to justify myself. Like love is a battlefield... Captain EO...FLOCK OF SEAGULLS!

I digress. I think it's wired into us to know whether or not we're living how we want to live. Unless we're ignorant and/or delusional, which some people undoubtedly are, bless their hearts.

Speaking of ignorant and delusional.

My girlfriends and I were at a bar recently. It's a dive, the seedier the better. And probably due to the fact that we were keeping to ourselves, an inordinate number of guys approached our table. Because we're fun and easy to get along with, we made conversation. But I can only take so much, and after Guy A had brought over his cousin Guy B and started talking about his great job that is just a launching pad to an even greater job where he'll make six figures, I had to stop him. I leaned over the table and said YES, BUT WHAT ABOUT BEING HAPPY? He said of course he'll be happy, he wouldn't pursue something otherwise. I said ARE YOU SURE? BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU THINK MAKING MONEY WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY. I then realized I was about to become that girl who emasculates guys in bars, so I shut up. He never really did answer my question, which I'd hoped would make him leave, but all he did was keep talking and eventually, ask for my number. Apparently buying a girl a drink gives you the open door to talk about yourself for twenty minutes and then assume she'll have your babies.


Tip: rather than talk your way out of these things, just give away the number for one of your sworn enemies.

I didn't get the feeling happiness was his goal. Gratification, maybe. Unless trolling the Spokane night life is your idea of fun, in which case my attempt at meaningful conversation was probably a mood-killer. Maybe he was misguided. I sat there thinking happiness is almost never synonymous with financial awesomeness, maybe that's what he's afraid of. Then I laughed, because who has two thumbs and apparently has to talk herself out of psycho-analyzing the local bar scene just so she can enjoy girls night? Pass the G&T! Cheers to life, love and the pursuit of unattainable women.  

I can be agreeable when I want to be. 

The older I get, the harder it is to be happy with the small things, but I make it a point to. What reason do I have not to? I'm surrounded by people who love me and want to see me happy. I'm incredibly privileged. The small things are my bread and butter which, if missing, would render my big picture that much emptier. And maturity has its bonuses, self-awareness being one of them. For me, this is key to coming to grips with what life has handed me. Knowing how I react, what I need in order to function, and how to communicate it to others. In fact, I've always thought it would be fun to grab a few adventurous girlfriends and go speed-dating, because by now I have a succinct, to-the-point list of things I would say about myself: about how I'm terrible on the phone, I don't like knives, and I once ran over a railroad tie with my car; that I tend to over-communicate so I hope you can appreciate that; I prefer conversation, books and movies which makes me think, but I steer clear of chick flicks because more often than not I end up feeling like I just lost two hours of my life that I'll never get back, and that Anne Hathaway is mostly to blame for that.

#1-#7, summed up in one very Stillar Christmas

That's right, I'm cheating. 

The beauty of holidays with a swarm of independent adults is that memories and traditions tend to manufacture themselves, you just have to be paying attention. When viewing the world through a humorous (albeit cynical) lens, one always has a story to tell. Because who are we if we don't have stories? This year's holiday celebration was low on the late nights and illegal substances, probably because my nephews were around. Babies ruin everything, apparently. Though one thing that hasn't changed is the noise level -- consider it our contribution to the conditioning process wherein infants learn to adapt to and otherwise sleep through busyness and noise. It's our middle names, bitches! We don't HAVE inside voices. And Kyle, he never learned how to whisper. So those babies can get used to it, 'cause seniority rules.


On that note, some moments worth recalling:

5. Grace and I's spirited discussion as to which Beatles' song can most be attributed to "that one night, on PCP..." = Come Together and Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, to name a few.

4. Alex opening his favorite gift, a golf club that probably has a technical or more accurate term but I don't give a damn, it's a club. He had it in his hands the entire hour and a half we spent opening gifts, handing it off only to open another gift. People, it was the incarnation of the term 'a kid on Christmas morning'. He's 24. 

3. Some play football, others sing carols, but our newfound tradition is to shoot guns. At clay pigeons, for lack of any pictures of our ex-boyfriends. And the key word here is "at", as I believe most survived.

2. We didn't actually celebrate until the 27th, so on Christmas Day we went to the movies. Mom always makes Dad and I sit together because apparently we talk a lot. For the fifteen minutes prior we sat in the lobby discussing the best way to refill our one popcorn container and make it stretch across two floors/theaters. Because yes, we are unabashedly cheap. We learned it from my brother-in-law who, on his wedding anniversary took my sister to the local discount theater and brought his own popcorn.

1. Though we're older and arguably wiser, our ability to assemble for a family picture has rapidly declined. It's like herding cats, except these ones have attitude problems and don't know what it means when you say BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS. Sure they can. We do it all the time. Mom wanted an aerial shot, and thanks to my fixed zoom lens, I needed to be a solid 7'-8' above the tallest person in order to fit all 15 faces into the frame. This meant standing atop a ladder, atop the deck, and I got to thinking I have a strong case for increased life insurance. That was shot #1. Then we hustled to change into our new (matching!) shirts, and ran back outside. Only a snowball fight ensued, at which point Erica retreated indoors and Jaleesa walked into the firefight spouting threats turned promises once she'd been hit twice. I stood there yelling out one simple order: line up. In a straight line. You know, next to each other.

In order?

No.

Tallest to shortest?

No.

Oldest to youngest? Are you older than me... I don't think you are...

NO. JUST LINE THE @$#% UP.

Precious, right. Happy new year to YOU.

#8: Slave labor + stupidity = a bloody lip.

For six years we lived atop a bluff north of Spokane, on a sprawling 100-acre alfalfa ranch. I call it a ranch but it wasn't... we had two dogs until one of them ran into an oncoming car, so really we had just one dog and a smattering of other weird pets, but never anything ranch-worthy. Four horses did appear on our doorstep one day, but they turned out to be locals that had gotten loose. It was fun while it lasted. 

I distinctly remember thinking, as a 10-year-old, that I had no desire to ever leave home, because HELLO, WE HAVE EVERYTHING WE COULD EVER NEED. 100 acres? Check. Trampoline? Check. Swingset? Check. Barn? Check. (It had two haylofts, one was designated for girls and the other for boys. CHECK.) BarnYARD? Check. Silo? Check. Not that I know what a silo is good for, but it sounded important.

We also had four or five walnut trees. As a kid, any tree that yields something edible is a source of potential survival if the world ends. So those trees were yet another check on the list of awesomeness -- clearly I've never been a homeowner, or I could've loaded up the 'Cons' column with things like... flooded basement? Check. Second flooded basement? Check.

Anyway. Walnut trees. They drop walnuts. And unless you're bionic or have nothing to do (and we were homeschoolers, we had TONS to do), those walnuts pile up at an alarming rate. So we used to have to pick them up individually, as the lawn couldn't be mowed until they were gone. We'd slap on plastic gloves, form a line, and comb the yard to find them. Then those same trees would drop leaves. Those were a bit easier, as all you had to do was rake. Unless you're me, and you aren't watching where you're going and step right in the way of your brother who has just pulled a big rake full of leaves behind him, and into your face. My lip got really huge, really fast. I ran inside to stop the bleeding, and all of my siblings followed me because they wanted to see, of course laughing the entire time. 

I think that's when I developed my ability to cope with pain by way of incessant and otherwise nervous laughter. It would make sense.