Something is terribly wrong with me. I’m sure of it. It’s serious, maybe terminal. I need to see my doctor just as soon as possible. The symptoms? I haven’t bitched about anything all week. Not one thing. Is it Alzheimer’s? Fibromyalgia? Vanishing-sarcasm disorder?
Now, now, you say, sometimes even the snarkiest of people are nice. It’s not serious. It’s not deadly. It’s not even unattractive.
But it’s never happened to me. And I don’t quite know what to say about my new-found niceness. Shouldn’t I have started being nice before puberty? Can someone start being nice at fifty-four-and-a-half? Shouldn’t I check for signs of brain washing since I have even remained pleasant for days after Michele Bachmann announced she really is running for President?
What caused these psychological changes? Are they permanent? Am I still employable?
Right now, I am sitting on the coast of Maine, where I’ve been staying for several days. I’m having a beer and looking out at a picturesque cove and the view of Placentia Island. Well, I could bitch about the name of that island, but not today.
I could bitch about the mosquitoes that are the size of hummingbirds, but not today.
I could bitch about the sun that comes up so early that it’s a pleasure to get out of bed at 5 a.m., but not today.
Today I am in a grumble-free zone. When I return to Washington, I’m going to demand that June 30 be designated as annual “No Bitchin’ Day.”
I don’t know if it will catch on. But if it doesn’t, I’ll have a thing or two to say about it. And I won’t be nice.