Life has a way of offering up a constant stream of joke fodder to comedians. They just can't help themselves. Everything they see/hear/smell/do can be turned into a joke.
Sometimes, I laughed so hard, I had to worry about my non-waterproof mascara running. My sides would hurt.
But then my feelings were the things that hurt. Because I became fodder for the jokes. And putdown humour is not funny if you are the butt of the joke.
"Familiarity breeds contempt."
It appears to be true. As the New Beau and I became more comfortable with one another, the jibes about some of my clothes, a certain piece of furniture, my (hormone induced) forgetfulness, the colour of my purse became a steady stream. Even when informed that I was not at all comfortable with that and that I found it hurtful, it didn't stop. Because it was funny, you know, not hurtful. And I was free to do the same to him.
But I am not a comedian. And I am definitely not about to say hurtful things to someone. Because I don't think that's funny at all.
From my end, it wasn't in the least. And when it didn't stop, I called a halt to everything. Sent him on his way. At least, later that evening, he emailed and apologized for his comments, saying I didn't deserve them.
Which I certainly didn't.
I still can't believe that what had started out so well went down the tubes so quickly.