“How is your day, ma’am?” When the dude at the fast food counter asked me this question the other day, the first thought that came into my mind was, “Well, it began with a mammogram and hasn’t really gotten much better.”
Today the grocery store clerk asked me a similar question, and not surprisingly I had still not rehearsed a socially acceptable response. “I have this uncomfortable sensation kind of in the middle of my chest, that is the emotional equivalent of having a moderately overweight hairy man standing on me. The pressure feels like my head will burst apart at the temples--or maybe implode, which doesn’t actually make sense but describes it more accurately. And right now I really, really need to vomit tears.”
Instead I lied; a nice, safe, uncomplicated lie. "I'm great, thanks." No one is made to feel awkward. No one needs to summon feigned and fabricated sympathy. But I felt morally compromised in my equivocation. Still, I smiled at the grocery store clerk, and I lied. At least I think it was a smile because I forced my lips to curl back over my teeth. Judging by the startled look on the bag boy’s face, however, I may not have quite hit the mark.
Today’s tsunami of hormones left me feeling self-destructive, too. Rather than simply wallow in my misery, I’d throw myself in head first. When the hormones hit this morning, I could have chosen to suck down the pint of chocolate brownie gelato in the freezer-- no one else was home to stop me, to question me, or even to look at me condescendingly. Instead I deliberately turned my back on sweet and comforting frozen goodness, and ate a bagel chip. When I got back into the car after shopping, I willfully did not put on the radio to cheer myself up with some tunes. Instead I allowed the grocery store muzak to continue its incessant loop in my brain (“Sad eyes, turn the other way. I don’t wanna see you cry [cry, cry, cry]. Sad eyes, you knew there’d come a day [hey-ey] when we would have to say good-bye….”) until it dug a pit in my brain that would take years of intense psychotherapy to heal. When the dryer signal went off for about the 20th time, I just stood in the laundry room doorway and absorbed it, letting its high-pitched chirrup pierce my brain...like a bunch of very sharp objects. And just to rub a little dirt in my mood, I later switched on NPR, hoping to find a replay of the piece about what life might be like after humans become extinct and rats take over the world (which they played twice today already), or the program about the controversial topic of fragrance-free workplace policies. However, had I really been intent on harming myself, I would have simply bought that box of donuts across from the dairy aisle. Raised glazed, jelly-filled, or sprinkled--it wouldn’t matter. The only things more nauseating are Circus Peanuts. Or pork rinds. Or Bazooka bubblegum.
A friend of mine recently suggested that we start a support group called hormones anonymous. I suggested a 12-Step program: Steps 1-11 would involve the indiscriminate and wanton consumption of chocolate; Step 12 would involve activities which one might find on personal injury attorneys’ Top 5 lists. Instead I sit here writing. Perhaps writing will make me feel better. But if it does, I can always dip into some banana flavored marshmallow candy and listen to Robert John. And then lie about it all.
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