My mother and
her best friend (see: frozen wild-berry Whistler) had a gentleman friend (circa 1950s) who when asked why he never
married, would inevitably reply: “I Couldn’t Stand All That Happiness”. Too much happiness? Over the years the ladies
used his quip in many other contexts, laughing conspiratorially, never
explaining. I surmised that it was because he was homosexual which in the 1950s
was a hard identity to own (think Rock Hudson, Liberace, Alan Turing).
My cat loves
extremes: sleeping or eating (with occasional wild moments of folly!) Her
world view lacks shades of grey: newly shampoo-perfumed hair is equally
fragrant to her as is 5 day dirty hair. It is the intensity of the aroma that interests
my cat: the extremes.
Though I washed my hair more regularly than that, I too
once thrived on extremes: inwardly plunged solo creation equilibrated by
unleashed communal participation.
Now, however,
there can truly be what I’d call too much happiness. My nervous system
can no longer accommodate towering excitement,
any more than it can accommodate rabid stress.
In other
words: I no longer thrive on extremes!
With
Parkinson’s I Can’t Stand All That Happiness!
Just the
other day I achieved the ideal balance of objective, creation, and outcome. A
friend had asked me for a short texted story (on the fly, as in tout de suite!)
to serve as a distraction during a boring meeting. It proved to be so distracting that my friend was only
able to finish reading it after the
meeting was over…
Upon hearing
this, I was Perfectly Happy.
