Grin Reaper

Since this shopper tends to think of the clientele of natural foods markets as a rather unsmiling lot, he sees irony in a notice pinned to a bulletin board at Wild Oats in Medford. The flier promotes the Arlington Laughter Club, where members "share laughter and playfulness" through a program that "does not involve jokes or humor."

The curious shopper calls Lynn Caesar, a licensed psychologist and psychotherapist for more than 25 years, who founded the club last October. "People can't quite grasp the concept that you can laugh in the absence of jokes and humor," says Caesar, who became a "certified laughter leader" after attending a workshop in Toronto led by Bombay physician Madan Kataria, also known as "the giggling guru."

"People say they need to laugh but don't, especially people suffering from depression," Caesar says. "They need help laughing." She extends an invitation to the next Monday lunchtime laughter club meeting, which draws a dozen peo-ple to the Church of Our Savior in East Arlington. "The whole premise of the laughter club is that we laugh for no reason," Caesar explains as club members form a circle.

For starters, Caesar asks people to say their names and then to laugh, then to share single sentences about themselves and to laugh again. "My name is Lynn," she says, adding a laugh joined instantly by the rest of the group. "And my first name is Patty." Group laughter rises to the hall's high ceiling. "My name is Deborah Gold," says the next member, "and I really like to laugh," which triggers such deep and genuine guffaws that even the skeptic taking notes outside the circle finds himself churning a chuckle.

Sudhanshu Misra barely gets through the first two syllables of his name before dissolving in loud giggles that are contagious. "My name is Diana Arezzo," the next member chimes in. "And I think I remember that I had a good sense of humor once," she adds, seemingly rediscovering it as she cracks up at her own line.

And so it goes for about 45 minutes as Caesar leads a series of exercises. Greet one another -- and laugh. Engage in a mimed finger-pointing argument -- and laugh. Make like you're holding a cellphone to your ear -- and laugh. When Caesar instructs the group to play patty-cake, this room of adults, most professionals, could be a daycare center filled with carefree 6-year-olds. And that, says Caesar, is the point. "We want to try to reclaim that magic of childhood that we lose as civilized adults. Children know how to be joyful in ways that adults have lost."

In this church, the Arlington Laughter Club is indeed making a joyful noise. Deborah Gold really does like to laugh. So does Thomas Varkey, a friend of Kataria's from Bombay. "Laughter is good for anyone. It costs nothing and requires no special equipment," says Varkey, an Arlington-based business consultant who founded the Boston Laughter Club two years ago. (According to worldlaughtertour.com, laughter clubs also operate in Greenfield, Melrose, and Westfield.)

Arezzo, a psychologist who brought her daughter Cara to the Arlington meeting, first felt that some of the exercises were forced. "But it's an excuse to play and have fun," she says. "It's about not taking yourself seriously, about not being self-conscious even in front of your 15-year-old daughter, who gets embarrassed by you no matter what you do."

There is little hard data to prove that laughter is the best medicine, but some research shows that laughter has a positive physiological effect. And it probably can't hurt. Caesar wants to draw more young people to laughter, which she thinks can be more effective than medication at curbing teenager anxiety. She and Misra hold workshops aimed at helping teenagers "take leave of stress" and find a "renewed sense of playfulness."

The gospel of giggle is about to spread even further: In early April, the giggling guru himself, Madan Kataria, is scheduled to visit Boston.