These are my socks. They are ridiculous. That is on purpose.

Every time I focus on these socks—My Little Pony, deeply discounted at Target about two years ago—I smile, because they are ridiculous, entertainingly so on a thirty-four-year-old writer of children’s novels.

No one can tell what’s on them when I am walking around in boots or sneakers, but these socks have entertained others too when the shoes come off and the goofy ponies are revealed—at my friends’ house, traveling with my parents and siblings, in front of strangers at the airport security line.

Mostly though, I wear them, because they make me smile—and in a tense year such as this one,

a) that is a feat, and
b) every little bit helps.

A little bit of goofiness makes room in a tough situation. This is the real life equivalent of when my Characters are on an intense and dangerous quest: for most of these scenes, when one of them is scared, another one makes wisecracks to ease the tension.

Humor doesn’t solve the problem. It doesn’t make the feeling of danger go away.

Instead, a little goofiness can make it easier to breathe and think clearly, because laughter can shift the dense energy of an uncomfortable situation. It gives you a little more room, emotions-wise, to maneuver through the tough or alarming stuff. You might even have enough space to start integrating some of your experience, which helps you then decide what to do. Eventually, this becomes habit.

For example, last month, my much adored MINI Cooper—faithful companion for nine and a half years, a.k.a. as my valiant steed—started having major engine trouble last month. My mechanic later referred to this as “limp mode.” This started when I was driving back to Charlotte for a haircut, via a steep winding country road in the NC mountains—beautiful but not a safe place to stop. I took deep breaths, drove as carefully as I could, and murmured encouragement to my car, exactly like she was a horse. I stopped in the nearest safe lot and called my mom to give her an update, joking: “I guess I’m not making it back to Charlotte today.” (Yes, I was wearing the socks.)

The same pattern repeated when—after talking with my mechanic—I suspected I needed a new car and drove my MINI to my first test drive for a new vehicle. Luckily, the test drive went well, because after, I tried to start the car. Nothing happened. I took a few minutes and let myself feel the sadness of knowing that my MINI had taken me as far as she could go. Then I went back inside and asked, “Do you believe in signs?” By the end of the day, I could tell it like a funny story (also wearing the socks).

It’s difficult to ignore the tension these days. But as you navigate, it’s okay to find something to laugh about.

Even if it’s your own socks.

Originally posted on 12/1/20.