Face Full of Mud

 

How AH you, dahling?

There’s no other way to say this: stroke or no stroke—my friends won’t put up with my shit.

You’ll recall I made a wisecrack in my last blog, something about eye-gouging, plastic sporks, and people who have the nerve to ask how I am. So, I’m sitting there last night at happy hour at our Little Town watering hole, just tapping my foot to the music and minding my own beeswax, when my friend DTLB comes over, reaches out for a hug, and in her best Grey Gardens voice, hollers, “How ARE you?” The thing is, see, she’s wearing plastic safety goggles.

Go ahead. Ask me again.

Five minutes later, my friend Bad B sternly warns it’s coming, then she asks how I am. Then my friend M gives me a cardboard cutout smile-on-a-stick to hold up in front of my face when people ask how I am, so no one will know I’m really gritting my teeth, snarling, and digging through my pocket for a spork.

So thanks a bazillion for the healing guffaws, ladies. And thanks to last night’s dinner guests who, even though it was their collective birthday celebration, gave me a night of feeling like “the person formerly known as me.” Best. Gift. Ever. I laughed the pathetic maudlin right out of me. 

 
It’s perfectly grand to have friends who are willing to knock you out of the pity wagon and rake you through the mud when you need it. Because admit it: we’re all just broken humans, down here flailing in the muck together. As Roseanne Roseannadanna said, “It’s always something”—stroke, cancer, insecurity, death, loneliness, loss, disability, poverty, shaky hearts, youth, boredom, fear, aging—it’s always something. Self-pity only prolongs the flailing.


We ALL need a face full of mud now & then to keep us honest, to remind us that no one is quite as “tidy” as they think. And I think my friend G would remind me that a good mud mask shrinks the pores…

We're just frickin' fine, thank you.