The art of yawning isn’t a laughing matter, though you may be sniggling right now. What could she possible ramble on about on a topic like yawning, you say. Well. I’ll tell you. If you didn’t know, I’m quite the authority on the subject.
My family are experts in the yawning art. Yawning has been in the family for years. I can’t remember a time our mouths weren’t displaying tonsils or even how it all began. I have an inkling though.
There are three girls in my family and five boys. Majority ruled the dinner table for years. Comments such as ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full’, ‘Don’t pick your nose’ and ‘Please resist hacking saliva in my presence’ went in one male ear and out the other. We females were, of course, the perfect model of female elegance and charm and protested strongly against such vulgarities.
Actually, we gave up protesting. We let them regurgitate spit and display mashed up food at the dinner table. Trust me, sometimes its better to let these things slid.
On the matter of family yawning, genteel behaviour was always far too hoity-toity for us. To this day, hands rarely meet mouths and polite murmurings of ‘excuse me’ are never uttered. After assessing these behavioural qualities, I’m convinced the men of the family started the yawning road show.
While scientist argue over whether yawning’s caused by fatigue, boredom, or our ancestral cave man need to display our teeth (for intimidation purposes you understand), I think my family yawns for none of those reasons and simply takes pleasure in jaw exercise.
If you will allow me to expound on this, without boring you to death, picture if you will a Safari lion. He’s lying under a tree, lazing about, not a care in the world. Now picture him opening his mouth, stretching it back, back, back, back, back…
Stop! Hold that thought!
Right, well, now you have a perfect replica of how my family yawns. An intriguing prospect, huh?
My younger brother is a classic example. When Timothy yawns, his jaw widens to such extended length that I’m always curious to see whether he’s able to close it again. I am pretty intimate with his sixteen-year-old tonsils due to this curiosity of mine.
Matters only worsen when we’re all in the same room together. It’s like we’re on this secret yawning wave length. One of us will yawn and rest of the family will answer with gaping mouth clarity. It’s like clock work. Like this amazing phenomenon yet to be discovered. If you were in the same room, you’d sit there and marvel at our jaw opening talents.
So I got to thinking we should do something about this art of ours. We should compose the first yawning symphony, or enter the Olympics as the first synchronized yawning team or wear t-shirts that say, ‘I yawn. Wanna see?’ and visit sick children. We’d wow a Beethoven-loving audience. We’d win gold, bronze and silver. We’d have children rolling about in bed squealing with laughter and delight. We’d be amazing. Spectacular. Don’t even try competing against us. We’d win.
Wouldn’t you love something like that? Wouldn’t that be something?
Hey! I saw that. You were yawning.
Let me tell you right now, if you’re trying to weasel your way onto Team Yawning, you gonna need to do some more serious yawning practice.
It’s an art. Don’t you forget it.