Why I Can't Just Relax

nope. still not relaxed

Right down there with the ever-flattering comment “You’d be prettier if you smiled” (to which I always want to respond, “Well, you’d be less of a jerk if you kept your mouth shut”), is a question far too often tossed my way: “Why can’t you just relax?” Instead of responding to my questioners one by one, I have decided to answer everybody at once, here and now.

Reason One: I am firmly convinced that my ultra tense super-vigilance is keeping, not only my family, but the whole world, safe. Mind you, this belief is demonstrably false, if you’ve asked my husband and kids, and if you’ve checked the news at any time during the 69 years I’ve been on the planet. Amazingly, my constantly clenched fists and grinding teeth did nothing to make middle school a lovely experience for my offspring, or secure that big film gig for Steve. My High Anxiety has not reversed climate change, ended a single war, or transformed our government into a functioning entity, either. But don’t confuse me with the facts! Let me remain just as I am, a firmly convinced nervous wreck.

 

Reason Two: I’ve TRIED to relax, believe me. Yoga, meditation, mani-pedis, cute kitten videos online--you name it, I’ve given it a whirl. But the relief never lasts long. The nail polish chips. The water in the bubble bath gets cold. And often, what works for others backfires completely with me. Case in point: I went for a massage a few months ago. I don’t love these as a rule, but for some reason was intrigued by the phrase “deep tissue massage” and asked the salon for one of those, please. Soothing, yes? No!! The sadistic massage therapist enthusiastically tore all my tissues (deep and shallow) apart, leaving me whimpering in pain and festooned with bruises. But I showed him. I only left a 30% tip. So there!

 

Reason Three: No one tells ME what to do. Oh, sure, relaxing would no doubt add years, if not decades, to my life, but I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of ordering me around! It’s for my own good, you say? What if I’d rather have things for my own bad? Here’s to freedom of choice!

 

Reason Four: Stress is my thing, my brand, my jam. You know how everyone knows Bobby McFerrin by his happiness and lack of worry? And Lady Gaga by her weird costumes (she certainly changed my view of porterhouse steak forever)? Well, if I had my own Wikipedia entry, the description of me would be all jagged and wiggly, with random **s and # signs and !! points, illustrating my essential nature. What would I be without my stress? I refuse to think about it.

 

If the past 457 words did not answer your question, maybe you should ask me a different one.

Like: why do you always interrupt people? 

Or: why can’t you ride a bike? 

Or: why are you so effortlessly glamorous?

 

Darned if I know.

ah! sweet mystery of life!