Snarling Lessons

My therapist calls me a “recovering Nice Girl.” As disorders go, I guess niceness isn’t padded wall-worthy, but it can lead to dysfunction. While smiles and “sure, no problem!”s work fine in most day-to-day situations, they fall a bit flat when, for instance, Ex Who Shall Not Be Named calls to request sympathy points. “Hey, great to hear from you! Long time no degradation!”

Sometimes even Nice Girls must bare their fangs. But my fangs are the vegetarian’s variety -- only sharp enough to pierce an eggplant.

As long as I can remember, I’ve been nice. Maybe it’s genetic. When I was in first grade, I recall an older kid using my head for an elbow rest. We were standing in line for a field day activity, and the kid casually propped himself on my skull, as if I were a side table with a bowl cut. I didn’t say anything. Just winced until his turn for beanbag golf came. If I had spoken up, I might have hurt his feelings. Perhaps he was weary from the cakewalk and needed a rest.

A few little boys with pointy elbows grow up to be big 'n' manipulative, self-appointed gods. Not good. I’m working on my snarl.

But it’s hard in this town. Honesdale thrives on niceness. I’ve mentioned the root-beer incident -- it looks strange in print, but Honesdalians see nothing unnatural in asking a passing stranger to open a soda bottle. I have now pretty much stopped walking with my iPod, because I’m afraid I’ll offend people who try to say hi to me. I wave cheerily at every honking car, because I can’t be sure whether it’s an obnoxious hornball or a harmless senior who saw me at the laundromat. There’s no beating niceness here. We’re the nice leading the nice.

I woke up ornery today, for a change. Haven’t yet recovered from the weekend‘s indulgences, and I could have used an extra four hours of sleep. Also, the charm of my isolated office is wearing off like a fleeting Limerick buzz. I’m tired of making up excuses to come downstairs and rejoin humanity. Thank goodness I’ll be unemployed in a week. Another month in my dismal chamber would likely turn me into Quasimodo. None shall pass!

With such limited human contact, I had little opportunity to be mean. At 5:00 I plugged into my iPod -- root-beer beggars be damned! -- and frowned all the way home. Fifteen minutes later, I wound up at the gym, where I ran four miles. The endorphins hit during my final lap. Returned to my couch, called my aunt. Tonight I find I’m back in nice mode. Bugger.

I’m no longer in therapy -- had my last appointment on Monday. I might have gone for another session, but I started feeling guilty….like maybe I owed the therapist a few more neuroses. Want psychosis? Sure, no problem! I’ll start twitching immediately!

It seems my recovery is a work in progress.