As I stumble through my Monday morning, scrambling from one professional crisis to the next, I come across a book that could solve all my problems, and then some.
It's a long story, but I'll try to be succinct. In addition to the usual onslaught of wee-morning self-doubt and anquish, issues with kids, schools, family, friends, work, and the blahs that come from doing a major house-cleaning/rearranging/carpet-gutting (and realizing the house actually looks WORSE than when we started), I realize I am also late getting a wholesale order out. I've dedicated today to finishing up those last touches and getting it out to FedEx by end of business day.
In the middle of this, I get an e-mail from my state guild that says I'm missing paperwork for the annual craftsmen's fair. Crucial paperwork.
I believe them. I can't FIND the damn papers, and I could swear I've already sent them out. But I can't prove it, because I can't find my copies, either. In fact, I'm sure it's my fault, not theirs. Should I stop and look for them? Risk losing yet another day on the wholesale order?
An hour spent searching reveals the hopelessness of the task. I will swallow my pride and beg for faxed copies.
But now I'm behind on my order. I go upstairs to my attic, digging for a box that might accomodate the unusually large pieces I'm sending. Then again for the right size tags to label each piece. I KNOW I saw them here last week, but can I find them today? No.
At last I find a box AND the labels. And in the box with the labels is a book I haven't touched since two house moves ago--"THE PORTABLE CURMUDGEON", compiled and edited by Jon Winokur.
I pick it up and bring it back downstairs with me. Because the subtitle says it all for me: "More than 1000 outrageously irreverent quotations, anecdotes, and interviews on a vast array of subjects, from an illustrious list of world-class grouches."
The idea is appealing....hmmmmmm.
What if I were a REAL grouch? A WORLD-CLASS grouch?
I think all my problems would be solved.
I would truly no longer care what people think--neither my family, nor Jon's family, nor my friends. I wouldn't care what my peers and professional world would think, either. I wouldn't care what my customers or accounts would think.
I would just be....a grouch.
I would no longer struggle to be perfect, to be competent, to be professional, to be polite, to be nice. I would no longer care what anyone thought of my work, my work habits, the state of my studio or the cleanliness of my home.
I would never apologize again. Not for my messy environment, my forgetfulness, my lack of organization (I HATE paperwork! I HATE filing!), nothing.
I would never again be dismayed by anything my children did or didn't do at school. I would never again be caught speechless by a friend's outburst or thoughtlessness. I would never again traipse hundreds of miles to attend an event, only to be greeted at the door with, "Well, look who decided to show up!" I would never again give up a day of my life, only to be told, "Is that all you can do?" I would never again give my time, my work, my advice, my heart only to be told it's not good enough/long enough/cheap enough/creative enough/whatever enough.
I would become master of the beautifullly upturned lip, the sneering rejoiner. "And your point is....?", she said sneerlingly. I love that word. Sneeeeeeer.
I would just be me.
Ornery, obnoxious, churlish, grouchy me.
Come to think of it, Oscar was always my favorite Sesame Street character....
And the best part of it all is, of all the grouchy people I know, I don't see them suffering any consequences. They still get invited to parties, they still have friends, they still get invited to give speeches and interviews. I have the book that proves it. So what's the downside?
I'll think on this as I scurry around today, trying not to fall into anyone's bad graces, and let you know how it all comes out.
