All of my life I've been one of those irritating people who possesses a sense the world's glass is not only 1/2 full, but that frequently runneths over. No matter how bad things have ever been, I rarely let it get to me. Oh sure, I might privately binge on chocolate. Or oatmeal cookies. And spend more time than usual in bed, but -- aside from a few extra pounds and a crusty, slobbery nap-line on my chin -- I suspect the people around me might not notice.
I don't have an ounce of road range -- I have never so much as honked my horn -- nor have I ever stormed out of a heated office discussion, or told a single lousy waitress: "I want to speak to the manager!" Nope, I've always been pretty much happy, optimistic, and, well, nice, I guess.
Which is why I'm not very good at being sad. And the last two years, I've been sad. A lot.
While I've yet to master that romantic version of sad depicted in black and white movies by women who can throw themselves onto of their bed -- on the diagonal -- and softly cry into their pillows with a throaty, rhythmic "huh-huh-huh...huh-huh-huh", what I have mastered is my own pathetic version of sadness symptoms.
These include, but are not limited to:
* An aversion to showering;
* A fondness for the ponytail;
* A longing for my shuttin' 'er down elastic-waist navy Calvin Klein sweatpants;
* Being seemingly oblivious to the coffee-stain on my pink flannel pj top (I'm not oblivious to it all -- I've just kind of grown attached to it. Like a freaky birthmark.);
* A combination of the above, and frequently, all of the above.
That's what my sadness has looked like through the hurdles, cartwheels, and pole-dancing (okay, we haven't had to pole-dance. But pole-dancing seems like it would be harder than jumping through hoops so felt like a stronger analogy.) of the last two years of trying -- unsuccessfully -- to adopt, followed by trying -- unsuccessfully to make a baby like they do in the text books we got in Grade 6 Health Class, followed by trying -- unsuccessfully -- to make a baby like they do in Hollywood petrie dishes.
Road ragers, you can keep your well-honked horns. I have a coffee-stained flannel top to slip into.
