View from the North 40: No crystal ball required

A humor columnist and a spiritual guide walked into a coffee shop, and it wasn’t a joke.

Really. It was, in fact, more like a blind date only, y’know, not as creepy as that sounds.

OK, I’ll admit it. A total stranger emailed me, mentioned the right names and connections, flattered me outrageously and asked if I wanted to have tea or coffee in a public place some day. I said, yeah, sure, why not, sounds great. And even though the situation sounds a little like the plot opening for a Hollywood psychological thriller when I read it here in print, it seemed like an alright idea at the time.

Besides, I’m no dummy. I did the risk assessment first, and from my understanding of psychology, sociology and statistics the odds of her being a “Hannibal Lecter,” “Fatal Attraction,” “Single White Female” level sociopath were pretty slim. I have a liberal arts degree, I know things.

And you know what? I was right. The woman is strange, like all-capital letters level odd, and we had a totally weird time. It was awesome.

Yeah, sure, at first we were just making the usual get-to-know-you chit chat. Nothing too earth shattering, beyond each of us telling the standard blah blah blah about ourselves. Never fear though, the conversation took a very interesting turn when we both started talking about me.

Because therein lie her mission.

I know you’re still curious about the whole “spiritual guide” thing, and I’m happy to let you be as confused as I am about that, but I can tell you this: She said she asked to meet me because she had a strong feeling that I needed a good talkin’-to from her intuition.

I won’t reveal all that she said because it’s very high-level secret stuff that falls under writer-spiritual guide confidentiality guidelines, which say that if I tell you I have to shoot my column. (Only in the footnote, but still, that would hurt.)

I can tell you this, though, she didn’t need a crystal ball because — dramatic pause for affect — my column spoke to her, connected with her soul. Bam! That’s not even the punch line, that’s reality, baby.

Of course, yes, I did look for hidden cameras or a medical arm band that indicated she desperately needed medication for an allergic reaction because, hey, this was my column we were talking about. I always assumed it only talked to the bottom side of bird cages. I was just as surprised as you are about this revelation, and she made it quite clear she meant soul and not sole. So there you are.

It was when she said she thought I could be a B-list Erma Bombeck that I actually laughed out loud. C’mon, you would’ve too and, bless her soles, she took it well. I asked her to clarify this vision of hers. “B-list?” I said, to which she replied, “Yes, I think being A-list is up to you.”

Heady stuff, a serious answer like that — which is why I actually laughed so hard my eyes leaked.

In that glorious moment, I knew then we were indeed destined to meet, but despite her visionary ways, it was she who needed my help.

When you tell someone you have a heartfelt feeling that they are destined to be a B-list, second-best, cut-rate, almost-star, that beautiful moment is clearly where you put the punchline, not a serious answer.

This woman obviously needs my help.

She may well be tapped into the Univers on a high-speed connection, but she needs serious help recognizing the perfect comic moment, and help with delivery, snappy comebacks, one-liners, zingers, too. What is life without a few good conversational zingers in each day.

So we will meet again my intuitive new friend, and we will speak of comic timing, the birthplace of a punchline and irony-based sarcasm as a superhuman shield.

(It’s all fun and games until you meet a weird stranger who says “Thanks for that, I needed a topic for my column” at [email protected].)