Four years ago, the effervescent Jane Williams observed that I spent a lot of time describing the people, places, and circumstances about which I strove to refrain from complaining.  She hazarded the mildly voiced guess that doing so tiptoed perilously close to complaining.  I saw the wisdom of her thoughts and switched gears, for which I remain in her debt.

Now I study the people, places, and circumstances at hand and wish that I could throw this mission over my left shoulder and have me a good old-fashioned bitch session.  I’m joking but just barely.

Listen:

A video making the rounds on social media depicts a trio of sad women yelling at a clerk.  One of them snaps, “Are you laughing at me?  Don’t you laugh at me!” and my heart clenches.  I can remember hurling just that accusation at a customer service rep in a Kansas City business.  And you know?  I think the clerk was laughing at me.  I had gotten upset, and justifiably, but the vehemence with which I registered even my valid protest had risen beyond the pale.  His laughter might have been mocking or it might have been nervous.  I saw it as treacherous.

I remember how I felt in that moment.  The error which I strove to protest cost me $200.00, which it took me about a week to recover.  My life had fallen into a shambles — a true mess, not just a bad hair day or a summer cold.  I barely dragged myself from bed each day.  I could not even bring myself to ask anyone for help. I had no idea where to begin to salvage the tattered remains of my existence.

I should have been at home. I should have been in a shrink’s office. I should have been sleeping, or enlisting the help of people who cared about me. Instead I stood at someone’s counter screaming because I had no idea what to do and the guy smirked at me.  I had had weeks on end of last straws and his giggle put me over the top.  I felt just like the lady in the video which I watched in horror a couple of days ago.  Are you laughing at me?  Don’t you dare laugh at me!

I understand her anguish.  I don’t laugh at people anymore.  I’ve been on the receiving end of that demonstration.  However innocently meant, that particular sound, in that moment, can sear a body to the core.  I stood  in that woman’s shoes once.  I could never do that to another person.

This journey has broadened my understanding of life in immeasurable ways.  I’m not complaining about not complaining.  It’s done my spirit a world of good that might just make a decent human being out of me yet.

It’s the sixteenth day of the fifty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.