D is Also for Danger

Yep, danger. As in, I think I’m in danger of becoming like Andy Rooney. You know, all crotchety and hatey. (WordPress keeps automatically changing “hatey” to “hater”. Because, you know, “hater” is an Important Word.)

I didn’t used to be crotchety and hatey. But now, there it is. Come to me with a problem, that your tennis elbow is acting up or your soufflé didn’t rise or you suspect that your spouse is sort of an asshole, and I’ll be all, “Oh, NO! That’s awful!” and I’ll either literally or verbally take you into my soothing arms. But all the while, I’ll be thinking bitter hatey thoughts. Thoughts like, Who cares about your stupid fucking tennis elbow? I’ve had fucking tendinitis for almost a decade!, and Seriously with the fucking soufflé? Just BUY one like a normal person! FUCKING AY!, and Of course your spouse is an asshole…how ’bout you grow a set and tell him/her you won’t stand for it any longer?

See? Andy Rooney. Hatey. This is an enormous concern to me, since I have always loathed Andy Rooney. And also because whenever Sean says something old-man-y, I giggle and call him Andy Rooney in a mocking tone. Me becoming more Andy Rooney-like than my husband could really put a dent in my mockery, and that would be a shame.

I’m thinking the best way to quash my inner Andy Rooney is to actually treat myself as something important, and address the shit that gnaws quietly at me. For instance, tendinitis? For almost a decade? Really? And I still haven’t bothered with acupuncture or keeping up with yoga? Well, shit. And, you know, talking with people for whom a perfect soufflé is important is a good way to set yourself up to have to hear a lot about fucking soufflés. So, duh, maybe don’t hang with the soufflé crowd. (Sadly, there’s not much I can do about your spouse being an asshole…that’s all on you, Muffin.)

Now I can’t help wondering if that was Andy Rooney’s deal, too. If he was so annoyed with everything in the world at large because he felt timid about his own importance. Oh, Andy Rooney. I would hug you, you poor crotchety thing. I mean, as long as you didn’t talk about your tennis elbow.

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