Today I Choose to be Mirthful – How to be Mirthful

The call came at 2 PM on a Tuesday, which should have been my first warning. My CEO Al never calls mid-afternoon unless something’s either spectacularly wrong or spectacularly expensive. This time, it was both. His voice had that particular quality that suggested the South African wine had been flowing as freely as the wildlife had been fleeing, and he was about to regale me with what he clearly considered the adventure of a lifetime.

“Susie!” he boomed across the international connection, “You’re not going to BELIEVE what I’ve accomplished here!” The word ‘accomplished’ had at least two extra syllables, which confirmed my wine theory. What followed was a breathless recounting of his African safari that left me alternating between horror and hysteria, trying desperately not to laugh while mentally calculating how many zeros would be on the check we’d have to write.

Apparently, Al had broken some sort of ranch record by shooting more species in five days than anyone in the establishment’s history. He rattled off the list like a demented Noah’s Ark manifest – kudu, springbok, impala, warthog, something called a blesbok (which I’m pretty sure he made up), and the pièce de résistance: a Cape buffalo that had the audacity to not immediately fall down when shot.

“Had to charter a helicopter, Susie!” he slurred triumphantly. “Can you imagine? A HELICOPTER! To track down one buffalo!” I could imagine, actually. I was imagining the invoice. I was imagining explaining this to our board. I was imagining the helicopter rental line item on an expense report.

When Life Becomes Absurdist Theater

The thing about mirth is that it often arrives at the most inappropriate moments. As Al continued his tale of safari glory – now describing how they’d had to hire extra trucks just to haul all his “trophies” – I found myself biting my knuckle to keep from laughing. Not because I found the hunting amusing (I was actually appalled), but because the sheer absurdity of the situation had tipped over into comedy.

Here was my 58-year-old CEO, who gets winded walking to the parking garage, suddenly transformed into Hemingway meets Rambo, chartering helicopters to chase wounded buffalo across the African veldt. The man who complains when his coffee is three degrees too cold had apparently spent five days in 95-degree heat, shooting at anything that moved.

“They charge by the animal,” he added mournfully, as if just now realizing that his shooting spree had financial consequences. “Every. Single. Animal.” The pause that followed was so loaded with regret that I had to mute myself to release the laugh that had been building in my chest.

This is mirthful – finding yourself in a situation so ridiculously absurd that you have to laugh or you’ll cry. Or in this case, laugh or you’ll have to seriously contemplate how to categorize “helicopter buffalo pursuit” in QuickBooks.

The Mathematics of Madness

As Al continued his confession (because that’s what this had become – a confession disguised as a victory lap), I started doing rough calculations. Trophy fees, helicopter charter, extra trucks, taxidermy, shipping… The numbers were adding up to something that would make our quarterly financials look like we’d invested in a small war.

“How many animals exactly?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

The pause was telling. “Well, there was the package deal for the first ten…”

“THE FIRST TEN?”

“And then, you know, opportunities presented themselves…”

Opportunities. That’s what we’re calling it when you turn the African savanna into your personal shooting gallery. I was now fully mirthful, in that hysterical way where you know you should be upset but the situation has spiraled so far beyond normal that all you can do is embrace the absurdity.

The Mirthful Response to Chaos

Here’s what I’ve learned about being mirthful at 61: sometimes it’s the only sane response to an insane situation. As Al described how they’d had to bring in a crane – A CRANE! – to load the Cape buffalo, I realized I had two choices. I could be the responsible CFO, lecturing him about fiscal responsibility and the optics of excessive big game hunting. Or I could be mirthful about the fact that my CEO had apparently lost his mind in the most expensive way possible.

I chose mirth. Because really, what else was there? The money was spent. The animals were deceased. The helicopter had been chartered. Somewhere in South Africa, there was a ranch owner lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills thanks to Al’s Hemingway fantasy.

“Al,” I said, when he finally paused for breath, “please tell me you at least got photos with the helicopter.”

The delighted laugh that followed told me I’d made the right choice. We could be serious tomorrow, when the wire transfer went through and we had to figure out how to explain this to the board. But right now, in this moment of absolute absurdity, mirth was the only appropriate response.

Finding the Funny in the Appalling

The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, with Al describing each hunt in detail that would have made a National Geographic documentary seem tame. The warthog that charged. The kudu that jumped the wrong way. The springbok that required what he called “strategic repositioning” (which I’m pretty sure meant he missed the first three shots).

With each story, I found myself getting more mirthful. Not at the animals’ expense – I was genuinely sad about that part – but at the complete disconnect between the Al I knew (who once called facilities because his office was “too echo-y”) and this Great White Hunter persona he’d adopted.

The helicopter buffalo story became the crown jewel. Apparently, after wounding the buffalo, they’d lost it in thick brush. Rather than doing the sensible thing and letting it go, Al had insisted on “finishing what he started.” Hence the helicopter. Hence the three-hour aerial search. Hence what I was now mentally calling “the most expensive buffalo in history.”

“You know they have buffalo wings at Buffalo Wild Wings for like twelve dollars,” I offered.

The silence on the other end suggested Al didn’t find this as mirthful as I did.

The Therapeutic Value of Inappropriate Laughter

Being mirthful when you probably shouldn’t be is sometimes the healthiest response to life’s absurdities. As I listened to Al justify the helicopter expense (“It’s actually very dangerous to leave a wounded buffalo, Susie”), I realized that my mirth was keeping me from less productive emotions.

Without mirth, I’d be angry about the money. Frustrated about the optics. Worried about the board meeting. Judgmental about the hunting. But with mirth, I could see it for what it was: a middle-aged man’s extremely expensive midlife crisis that happened to involve African wildlife and aircraft.

Some men buy sports cars. Some have affairs. My CEO apparently needed to prove his masculinity by shooting half of Noah’s Ark and then chartering a helicopter to finish the job. In the grand scheme of midlife crises, it was simultaneously the most ridiculous and most literal interpretation of “big game hunting” I’d ever encountered.

The Mirth Spillover Effect

After Al hung up (with promises to email photos and a warning that the taxidermy shipping costs would be “substantial”), I sat at my desk in a state of mirthful shock. The situation was so absurd that I had to share it. I walked into our CFO’s office and simply said, “Al chartered a helicopter to hunt a buffalo.”

The look on his face – a perfect mixture of confusion, disbelief, and dawning horror – sent me into fresh peals of laughter. Soon, we were both mirthful, not because animal hunting is funny, but because the sheer excess of the situation had transcended normal parameters of executive behavior.

By the end of the day, the entire finance team knew about the helicopter buffalo. We’d created a new unit of measurement: “HBUs” (Helicopter Buffalo Units) for any expense that seemed excessive. “This software license is about 0.3 HBUs.” “The holiday party? Maybe 0.5 HBUs.” It became our mirthful way of processing the absurdity.

The Bill Arrives

Three days later, the initial invoice arrived. I opened it with the same feeling you get looking at a car accident – you don’t want to see, but you can’t look away. The number at the bottom had so many digits I had to count them twice to make sure I was reading it correctly.

But here’s the thing about choosing to be mirthful: once you’ve committed to finding the humor, you can’t suddenly switch back to horror. So when I saw the line item that literally read “Helicopter Buffalo Recovery Mission,” I didn’t cry. I laughed. I laughed until tears came anyway, but they were tears of mirth at the absolute audacious absurdity of it all.

I forwarded the invoice to Al with a single comment: “I hope that buffalo was delicious.”

His response: “Haven’t tasted it yet. It’s being shipped.”

Of course it was.

The Lasting Legacy of Mirthful Moments

It’s been six months since the Great African Safari Incident (as we now call it in the office). The mounted buffalo head arrived last month and now presides over our conference room like a very expensive, very dead reminder of what happens when executives go wild.

But here’s what that experience taught me about being mirthful: sometimes the most appalling, ridiculous, expensive mistakes make the best stories. The helicopter buffalo has become legend in our company. New employees hear about it during orientation. It’s our reminder that even serious businesses can have moments of absolute absurdity.

More importantly, choosing mirth in that moment – instead of anger or frustration – set a tone. Al came back from Africa expecting lectures and consequences. Instead, he found a team that had chosen to be mirthful about his extremely expensive adventure. It actually brought us closer together, united in our shared amazement at the lengths one man would go to for his safari fantasy.

Today’s Choice to be Mirthful

Today I choose to be mirthful because life is too absurd not to laugh at it sometimes. When your CEO calls you tipsy from Africa to confess he’s chartered a helicopter to hunt a buffalo, you have a choice. You can be the responsible adult, full of judgment and fiscal concern. Or you can be mirthful at the magnificent absurdity of it all.

Being mirthful doesn’t mean you approve. I still think the whole safari was excessive and unnecessary. But being mirthful means recognizing when a situation has passed beyond the realm of normal response. When life becomes so surreal that the only sane reaction is laughter.

At 61, I’ve learned that mirth is sometimes the wisest response to foolishness. It preserves relationships that anger would destroy. It creates stories that become part of company lore. It takes potentially divisive moments and transforms them into shared humor.

The helicopter buffalo taught me that being mirthful isn’t about finding everything funny. It’s about recognizing when life has handed you something so preposterously absurd that not laughing would be missing the cosmic joke. It’s about choosing lightness when you could choose lecture. It’s about understanding that sometimes the most expensive mistakes make the best memories.

So today, when life serves up its next absurdity – and it will, because life is reliably ridiculous – I choose to be mirthful. Not because everything is funny, but because finding the humor in the appalling is sometimes the only way to survive it with your sanity intact.

And if nothing else, I now have a response ready for any future expense complaint: “Well, at least it’s not a helicopter buffalo.”

Works every time.

About Susie Adriance: At 61, Susie has learned that laughter is one of the most sophisticated forms of medicine available to us. A writer and chronic overthinker, she’s discovered that the ability to find humor in life’s disasters might be the most valuable skill we can develop. She believes that choosing mirth isn’t denial – it’s a form of wisdom that transforms how we experience even our most challenging days.