It’s those crazy hyenas again

Yesterday, a status happened through my news feed that cracked me up.  “Goodbye, shrub.  Hello, teenager with very fragile, tenuous cell phone privileges,” it said. 

I could only guess what had happened.  It cracked me up, and so I mentioned it. 

“Is it okay if my inner hyena hollers if I appear properly sympathetic on the outside??” I queried meekly, having teenagers myself.

She laughed.  Then her friends laughed, and an ordinary, everyday event became a communal hyena cackle fest.

Lying in bed later, I told Mr. Schrock about it.  “Maybe they’ve never heard of inner hyenas,” he said.

“I think I was born with one,” I said, staring up into the dark.  “In fact, I may have a couple.” 

He laughed.  “You,” he said, “have three!” 

That’s awfully close to a pack, if you ask me.  I wouldn’t go so far as to claim an entire three African hyenas, all coiled and ready to riot at the drop of a hat (or the swipe of a shrub).  But there are times when the boys are right, I’m guilty as charged, and they flare.  It’s good that being a “trouble laugher (their term)” isn’t a felony or I’d be in an orange jumpsuit now and then.  (I don’t look good in orange, see, so that’s a mercy right there.)

Is there a diagnosis for this?  A cure?  An official medical term that would take the heat off ’cause then I could claim a congenital condition?  Hyenamegaly, perhaps? 

Sigh.  For now, I’ll chalk it up to heredity.  ‘Cause I just happen to have a few folks in my upline that have these symptoms in spades. 

Yeah.  I’ll just blame it on them.

Laughing (what else?),

The Lively One