The Village Groomer
Walpole, MA 02081
The
other day I was complaining to my daughter Missi about an employee who is
always complaining. “Mother,” she said,
(not Mama, which is my name when I am not getting on her last nerve). “Do you realize the irony in this
situation? You criticize others for
complaining but you don’t seem to realize how much you complain yourself.”
I can’t
say I welcomed that bit of enlightenment like a flower welcomes the morning
sunshine but the girl had a point. For
me, kvetching had become a habit. If I
couldn’t think of anything to fill a conversational lull, I’d usually pipe up
with “Isn’t this weather terrible?”
Experts
say that carping can be a cry for attention.
That might be the case with the employee in question whose slumping
shoulders and pouty puss are really telling me “I’m working too hard and you
don’t appreciate me.” I wonder if
feeling sorry for someone can be as satisfying as a pat on the back or a raise. Probably not.
Grudgingly,
I told my daughter she had made her point, announcing that I would swear off
complaining for the next week to see if it would help me to face life with a
more positive attitude. She gave me a
knowing smirk but said she would take me out to Sunday brunch to celebrate my
decision.
“I’m
starving,” I announced as we sat down.
“The food here is good but I hope the service has improved.” She looked at me grimly. Fifteen minutes later I started tapping my
fingernails on the tabletop. “Are we
invisible or what? That couple over
there got here when we did and they are already eating their French Toast.”
“You’re
not going to die of starvation, I promise,” she mumbled. “What do you say we start off with a nice
Bloody Mary?” When our food finally
arrived, it was good – not the best Eggs Benedict I’ve ever eaten, but not bad,
I told her, feeling more positive already.
Monday, I
went shopping with my girlfriend, looking through racks of clothing that must
have been designed for Britney Spears.
“Doesn’t anyone realize that except for Cher, most women our age don’t
want to wear little half shirts that show off their belly buttons?” I
sighed. Summoning up every ounce of my
courage, I took some bathing suits into the dressing room but soon I wanted to
scream, “What woman-hating man designed these closet-sized cubicles with
full-length mirrors that show every bump and blemish? Did he give up his day job making mirrors at the Fun House?” No matter how hard I sucked in my tummy, I
just didn’t have abs like Suzanne Sommers.
It had to be the lighting.
Tuesday at
the bank, I stood in line for 30 minutes.
In this instance, not whining would have been considered
anti-social. My bank has recently been
taken over in a large corporate merger and it hasn’t been pretty. “They completely screwed up my account,”
carped the man in front of me. “I’ve
had checks bouncing all over the place.”
“That’s
nothing,” griped the woman in back of me.
“I just tried to use the ATM machine and my card doesn’t work
anymore. This is just how I wanted to
spend my lunch hour,” she grumbled, pulling a tuna sandwich out of her purse.
On
Wednesday, I learned that my writing buddies were planning a reunion. I’m looking forward to seeing them all. Well, almost all. There’s this one lady – I’ll call her Eleanor - who puts me to
sleep every time she reads stories from her childhood, long descriptions of
what she wore to church and the architecture of her boarding school. I told the woman hosting the even that I
hoped Eleanor wouldn’t make it.
“You
know,” she said, “I’ve found that kind of negativity brings forth bad
karma. You’re not communicating from
your higher self here.” When did she
turn into Thumper’s mother? “If you
can’t say somethin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.” I clammed up but I also realized this self-imposed gag order
might mean I’d have to switch to writing Romance Novels.
“How did
that date go with the fellow you met through the Personals?” my sister asked me
on Thursday. “He was okay,” I replied,
“but I can’t understand how ‘Handsome and distinguished with an athletic build’
translated into ‘Ordinary-looking, overly attached to my Mom and wearing a
tight shirt that shows off my love handles’.”
I was tempted to take this further but realized I was complaining
again. “He had a great personality,” I
added
Rushing
through the supermarket on Friday, I met a longtime client. “How are you?” she smiled. “I’ve had better days,” I began, all set to
tell her about my sinuses, but quickly bringing myself up short. “Look at these strawberries!” I
exclaimed. “Don’t they look
scrumptious?” I hate to say it, but all
this happy talk was starting to give me indigestion.
Saturday
afternoon was slow at the shop. I was
catching up on my reading when a customer asked, “Is that a good book?” It’s about as exciting as watching paint
dry, I wanted to tell her, but I sugarcoated it. “An interesting take on marriage in the new Millennium.” She quickly changed the subject.
On Sunday,
I opened my daughter’s fridge to get a cold drink. “Omigod!” I cried, “Is this a new branch of the Museum of
Science? You’ve got stuff in here
that’s fossilized!”
I had
fallen off the wagon again. I knew I
had failed miserably in my attempt to quit complaining but I didn’t feel it was
a total loss. It made me more aware of
my own shortcomings, I told Missi.
“Hopefully, from now on I’ll be more tolerant of others,” I observed
optimistically.
“Maybe if
you get a lobotomy,” she offered.
Could this
be hereditary? That sure sounded like a
complaint to me.