Charades, laughter & farmer’s tans

How vulnerability and humour can help repair our frayed social fabric

Sue and I sit at the dining room table scribbling dozens of phrases and movie titles on strips of paper.

“We’re out of practice with this whole socializing thing,” she says. “It takes quite an effort.”

“Sure does,” I reply. “But it beats zooming. Screens tend to filter out exchanges of energy and these days we need real-life connection.”

The strips are for charades. We’ve been invited by a group of friends to join their games night ritual – and it’s our turn to host.

Our company arrives and as I explain the rules of engagement, there’s a certain anxiety in the air.

That’s because charades means putting it all out there – being completely vulnerable. You’re at risk of bombing – not only losing the game – but looking the fool as you do so.

There’s nothing quite like standing in front of a group with the stopwatch ticking, pulling a strip of paper from the bowl, and having to instantly perform.

“Charades pushes you in the deep end,” Tara says with a mischievous grin. Tara’s a ruthless games night enthusiast, part-time wildlife saviour, and full-time partner to John-Deere-in-the-headlights Brad (more on him later).

Tara’s got a point. In charades, you sink or swim. When it’s your turn, the only thing that could be more embarrassing than your incomprehensible contortions is to freeze and do nothing at all.

Tonight, it’s women against men. In turn, we each do our very best Billy Van or Dinah Christie and, truth be told, none – save perhaps the aforementioned Tara – is a candidate for Party Game stardom. But do we ever laugh. In fact, perhaps because we’re so out of practice, our jaws are sore from laughter.

The competition is intense. The men should be winning – but sadly we aren’t. And while I’m personally against the blame game – this is clearly Kathleen’s fault. She can’t tell time. After much debate, Kathleen grudgingly accepts that two minutes is not ninety seconds. Freddie, her partner, nods in agreement – with what, no one can be sure. But whatever it is, he’s definitely in agreement.

As it tends to do around here, the humour turns rather bawdy. Poor Al is seated closest to the front of the room and although the rules state that props are verboten, fingers are frantically pointed by muted performers at various parts of his anatomy.

This controversial technique permits Tara’s team to guess the forgettable Dennis Quaid/Winona Ryder movie ‘Great Balls of Fire’ in under 15 seconds.

There’s finally a break in the action – drinks are topped up – and we chat… about our lives in 2022.

“This season, I feel like we’re a bunch of prairie dogs sticking our heads up to see if the coast is clear,” says Sue.

“That’s it,” replies Pamela, Al’s better half. “But it’s not just the next wave we’re wary of – it’s the stories of division and strained relationships.”

“So many threads of connections are snagged – some are completely torn,” chimes in Kathleen.

And on this theme, everyone has a story. Sisters who have stopped talking; friends lost in dark tunnels of cabals and tracking technology; disputes over mandates and civic duties. There seems to be more distance between us than anyone can recall.

I offer my two cents: “The past two and a half years have been hard on us – on our connections. Whatever stresses we may have had pre-pandemic, another layer has been added – as if one of those weighted stress blankets has been tossed on top of whatever we were already dealing with. Instead of reducing anxiety, it’s in addition to our previous burden.”

There’s a moment of silence and Brad, who has been quiet, changes gears and speaks up.

“My John Deere lawn tractor’s in need of major repairs.”

“I thought it was brand new,” says Al. “What happened?”

“It’s only broken because Brad doesn’t like farmer’s tans,” insists Tara. “You know, those red forearms and white shoulders?”

“You lost me on that one, Tara,” replies Al.

Brad clears his throat and confesses: “I was wearing my new cowboy boots and the tapered toe fits perfectly between the accelerator and the brake. It got lodged in there and I crashed through the horse fence.”

“We still don’t get it,” says Freddie with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“That’s all Brad wears when he does the lawn – boots and Stetson,” Tara deadpans. “That way, there’s no risk of farmer’s tan.” 

With those words, our shared laughter reaches a peak. Sides split and tears flow.

And Brad’s courageous story becomes my epiphany for the evening.

Laughter is one of the answers to our crisis of social cohesion. Not the laughter that ridicules the other – but rather self-deprecating humour that exposes our vulnerability.

Common laughter can be our virtuous circle – cultivating trust and enhancing our sense of social support – inspiring the confidence to share more vulnerabilities.

When we open ourselves and seek to understand what others are going through – be it trials and tribulations, challenging charades, or horse fences – we invariably build connection.

“Did you learn anything from the experience?” Al asks Brad.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Gotta’ lose the boots. From now on, it’s just flip-flops and the Stetson.”

“Took a lot of guts to tell that story,” I say to Brad.

“Not really,” he replies. “When you play charades, you find out who you can trust.”

Our greatest strength is found when we choose to be vulnerable, to pay attention – to empty our minds of preconceptions and allow others to be truly discovered. Shared laughter cultivates this strength and can be the best medicine for our troubled times.