By: Ann Brown
Well, I’m just going to come out and say it. Everybody else in the world is doing better than I am.
Oh, don’t even start with me about losing your job or your basement flooding or your bladder infection that won’t go away. Don’t even. I know what I know and what I know is that I am sick and tired of people’s good news. I did take momentary pleasure in reading that Obama’s approval numbers have gone up, but then I thought to myself, “what about MY approval numbers? I still only have, like, 169 Dr. Strangemom Facebook friends. And I was totally for the public option.”
I think the annual Christmas letters are what finally did me in. Does everyone lie, or do people get out and do shit, like, every weekend? Am I the only one who is watching the Burn Notice marathon? The only one nuking popcorn for dinner and devoting my free time to perusing hair products on amazon.com? Am I the ONLY one who takes the Sabbath seriously? Did the Lord spend the seventh day skiing? Cleaning out the garage? Running Hood to Coast? I don’t think so. S/He intended us to rest. Exfoliate. Experiment with highlights. Hide behind the sofa and not answer the door when friends come by. You know, be holy.
I do not send out holiday letters. Frankly, I would have to make up all sorts of shit and no one would believe me anyway. I suppose I could stick to the truth, like, I finally found that apple core I’ve been looking for all spring. I just knew it had to be under my bed. Oh, and I went up another size in underpants. Again. Best wishes in 2011.
If you happen to be part of a sporty family, your letter practically writes itself. Although, I have to tell you that no one cares how your kid’s team did this season, especially if they did well. I know we all say we care. But we don’t. We don’t even remember if your kid is a boy or a girl. Even when we see it.
You know what I like? I like hearing that things are fucked all around. I am not interested in doing better than anyone; I am interested in being fucked together. A gang of fucked. Sharing the last piece of Trader Joe’s spanokopita, reading aloud from Valley of the Dolls, and snuggling close as the embers die out. THAT makes you want to live to see another day. I mean, hearing whose kid got into Stanford, whose career is going well and how, once you get used to it, you don’t even miss carbs – why bother waking up to a new morning after that?
Although, honestly, if things are going well for you, bless your heart.
And by “bless your heart”, I mean, keep it to yourself. Or gimme some.