The Virtue of Complaining

The Midwest is like the national nursery from which most high-achieving and famous people spring--and wherefrom they flee to one or the other coasts, where people of outsized talents and egos go to be wholly welcome and celebrated in a region of the country that doesn't demand an absolutely moderate sense of scale and purpose.

Well, I grew up on the East Coast, but I am spending some quality adult years in the Midwest.

And yes, I do feel out of place with all of my opinions and politics and outsized sense of self and personality, (which is regularly offset by its corollary: an exaggerated sense of  worthlessness).

And while I admire Midwestern stoicism and optimism, particularly in the presence of disaster and catastrophe, I do not think that every single day requires stoicism or optimism.

I don't think that complaining is an act of weakness, or sabotage.

If looking at photos of our friends on their fabulous vacations on Facebook makes us feel worse about our own uneventful lives and relentless Mondays, doesn't it follow that the opposite may also be true?

I'm not talking about the sordid primal screams we occasionally run across on our FB news stream--the overwrought shrill and profane howls of young people scratching an itch, or each other's eyes out in the course of youth's timeless mating ritual.

I'm talking about a faithful record of casual disappointment--tempered by charming photos of an adorable cat or dog.

Everyone experiences disappointment.  And anyone can have an adorable pet.  Anyone can relate to the affection we feel for our pets.

On the other hand, horses.

I have them, and maybe you don't.  But if, by complaining, I can remind you of the great effort I must make every day, in all weather, to keep them fed and tidy, then maybe you won't feel a twinge of envy.

And if I further complain that my clothes smell like horse-shit every day, and the pony bites me sometimes out of spite, then you might feel almost smug, and pity me.

You see how that works?

And it's true, it's a trade-off: All the good stuff, all the good luck, most of the time, comes at a price.

An hour vacuuming instantly undone by a tsunami of mud clumps, dander, and tumbleweed fur.

A minivan like a mudroom on wheels, a sarcophagus of crud crumbles and bio-hazardous dog dust and slime.

The great cat stretched out like a lion on my son's lap, charmingly purring and keeping him warm, comes with three cat litter boxes and four other cats.

One of the four is 18 years old.  She no longer sheds out properly, but knots up in mats too close to ancient thin skin to cut close with a scissors.  Yet she leaves deposits of fur here and there, like crop circles, a porcupine releasing its quills.  And yet we are glad she's alive and still with us, because a dead cat is no fun at all.

The virtue of complaining is that life is rarely easy or perfect.  I envy your front yard because you work hard to make it lovely; but I don't see your labor, I only see your lovely yard.

I see your tropical vacation, but not what came before: the hard work, the long hours, the accumulated depletion that gave rise to a deep screaming imperative to cut out for the cerulean blue sky and turquoise water...I don't see how much you deserved it.

A little complaining is part of the balance.  It allows me to see you as real, like me.  The weather is lousy?  You didn't get much sleep?  Your dog threw up on your bed?  Tell me!  I'll tell you about my own little horrors, and we'll laugh.  Or at least, we'll both feel better.