I have picked up a really bad habit over the last few years. I am always "tired." Not really physically exhausted...although I have been sleeping a lot lately. And rather badly at that. But this is more about what I say when people ask "How are you doing?" or "What's the matter?"
I dread these two questions. Nine times out of ten, the person who asks isn't really interested; they don't want an answer, they want to be excused from actually caring. So, they expect you to say, "I'm fine" or "nothing's wrong." But, frankly, most times that is a bald-faced lie. I am not fine, and plenty is wrong, but since I don't want to be that weird, crazy woman who spills her guts whenever you get near her, I play nice and I say, "I'm tired."
Tired is easy. Tired is something people can understand, and tired can be used to excuse everything from a snappish answer to leaking tears. It is much more politically correct than PMS. Tired also implies that the one who asked can just move on and not give your problems anymore brain space, because a "well, good night's sleep will fix you right up."
I wish for the courage to say what I really mean. When one of my colleagues--who apparently has only just learned my name after 8 years of working together, and now feels the need to make amends by making a beeline for me at every opportunity--chirps "How are you doing today, Jaymi?", I would love to be able to look her dead in the eye and say, "I work at a job which sucks the soul out of me, and keeps me convinced that the collapse of civilization is a mere generation away. I am paid wages that a babysitter doing a comparable job would find laughable, and for these minor ducats am forced to eat the shit of teenagers who will, for the most part, either be serving me cheeseburgers or used for cannon fodder in a desert overseas in the very near future. And how are YOU, today, Eileen?"
But I never say that. "Oh, I'm fine, Eileen. Just a little tired." (By the way, I learned her name the first month of school eight years ago. Just want to put that out there.)
Or better yet, when one of said teenagers saucily askes me, "Like, GAWD, Ms. Curley, like, you're so grumpy today, like, what IS your problem?", I would give up a winning lotto scratcher for the nerve to say, "My problem, you future Jery Springer guest, is that I am put out by the fact that everyday I have to try to teach basic English communication to your exposed bellybutton. I am miffed that you don't take your expensively manicured fingers out of the chip bag under your desk long enough to write a paragraph. I am pissed off that the notes you write to your equally vapid friend in the classroom next door are never less than three pages, and your essays are rarely more than three sentencs. I am bent double with rage that you don't even care how little you know and how poorly you comprehend. And lastly, future president of the Pole Dancers of America Local 383, I am sick, yea, violently ill, at the prospect that you will one day breed and send to school yet another over-attended, self-absorbed leaping gnome to sit in my class and torment me."
No, no. I'd never really say that. "I'm just tired, Brittany." (Why are they always named Brittany? I think Brittany must be French for "shallow, egomaniacal bitch.")
Dating would be a nightmare with out the "tired" cop-out. Imagine the horror. He says, "Geez, what is your problem?" and instead of coppping to a rough night of insomnia, I tell him the truth. "Funny you should ask, Harold. I was thinking that my problem was the way you clip your toenails in my lving room. I was thinking that my problem was you giving me a half-assed, one arm grab with your eyes firmly fixed to my color TV when I tell you that I need a hug. Or the funny way you come over and eat dinner with me night after night and don't offer to pitch in for the food or with the dishes. Maybe my problem is the 4th grade way you constantly tease me about everything from my hair to my hockey team--you haven't descended to bra-snapping yet, but I'm sure it isn't far off. Or maybe, hon, my problem is that the last thing you read was the back of a Froot Loops box. But then, suddenly everything snapped into focus. Those aren't my problems, they're YOURS! In fact, my only problem is that I am still dating you. Whoops...make that my FORMER problem. Ta-ta, Harry, dear."
Of course, I never say that. "I'm sorry, Harold. I'm tired." (Although, it is worth noting that he never apologizes to me for the jagged shards of toenaill clippings I have to vacuum up weekly.)
One day I am not going to be able to hold it in anymore. I really feel sorry for the person who runs into me that day, and peppers me with one of those feeble-ass "How are you?"'s. Without a doubt, I will unleash a torrent of invective, creating an acidic mushroom cloud of bad feelings that will strip the flesh from his or her bones and then float around the countryside wreaking havoc.
You know, you just can't keep that stuff bottled up forever.
