High Maintenance

I hope no one ever has cause to call me one of two things: pessimistic, or a high maintenance person. In my book, they are one and the same. It is wearing to hear continual negative comments: to hear someone shoot down every ray of light and hope. Some are aware of doing it and others aren't because it's second nature to find the worst case scenario for every positive comment.

I spent the afternoon today with a high maintenance person. From my first cheery "Hello!" he moped and shot down everything I said.
"Harry," I started, "Just look at the flowers in the median. Have you ever seen such a pretty median strip?" We were on the way to a nearby town. I was dazzled by the bright flowers--all of which were drought resistant.
Harry frowned and squinted out the window at the flowers. "Yeah," he grunted. "It looks like someone cares." His voice trailed off dejectedly.
"What?"
"Just what I said! It looks like someone has taken care of the place and not let it all go to ruin like so many desolate places do."
I felt like my ears had been pinned back.

A few minutes later I pointed out a very attractive new housing development. "Sam and I are interested in a couple homes in here that are in foreclosure," I said, trying to get a conversation going.
Harry flatly responded, "These houses are too close together and have no lawns."
Not to be deterred from my optimism I tried again: "Yes, but we don't have time for a lot of lawn work so this would be perfect for us."
"I hate it," was his rejoinder.
Wow.

A few minutes later I was telling this man that I was thinking about flying to Ashville for a conference in the fall. It promises to be an excellent educational experience.
"Better hope you'll get there, what with all the terrorist threats."
"Oh, for Pete's sake," I snorted. "What a thing to say!"
He raised his eyebrows in a knowing way and leaned his head back against the headrest. "Well, things happen." There was a determined twist to his upper lip.

Later in the day:
"Ooooh! Let's stop and see what's at this veggie stand!" I love produce stands. "Do you mind?" I asked.
"In this heat I don't know how everything inside can keep from being cooked and rotten in there." Harry was climbing out of the car with an eager, grumpy expression on his face. The set of his jaw told me that he expected to find limp vegetables and soured fruit, sliming down the wood of the bins.

I bought a pound of fresh mushrooms and three beautiful red bell peppers. "Watch out for those mushrooms," Harry admonished me. "They go bad really fast in the fridge and you will go to use them and they'll be mush."
"Thank you, Harry" I said. "I would not have thought that."
Harry glanced at me sideways, hearing the irony in my voice. But he seemed to truly be focused on rotting mushrooms in my crisper.

"Harry," I said on the way home, "I don't remember your hair looking as full and shiny as it is today. Whatever you have done to it looks excellent!" Harry had a beautiful head of silver hair and I had always admired it.
"White hair is dead hair--don't you know that?"
"I've heard that, but your dead hair is really nice."
Harry didn't smile, but he looked off into the distance absently. "Did you know that hair keeps on growing after you die?"
I drew back in horror at this announcement. "What?"
"They've dug up graves and opened caskets and found that men had grown whiskers--and some women have, too!" He chuckled.
I was horrified at this conversational turn. I'm no Pollyanna, but everything positive, complimentary, or hopeful that I said was somehow turned into cause for consternation, disgust, or dread. Harry simply can't be happy.
Neither can he express joy or hope.
I handed him a fresh Fuji apple. "Tell me, Harry...How is it?" I knew Harry did in fact like apples, especially apple pie.
"It's not bad."
"Does that mean it's good, Harry?"
He shrugged. "I find no fault with it."
"Yes, but is it good? Do you like it? You're saying it all backward. Why can't you just say, "Gee! This is good! I like this!"?"
"Well, it tastes okay." He looked miffed.
"Harry, is it just okay, or is it a good apple?"
"Well, Fuji apples are pretty good apples."

I folded.

Getting Harry back to the office couldn't happen fast enough as far as I was concerned. I love Harry. He's hard working, dedicated, thoughtful, and reliable. But what hadn't been apparent until today, was that he can't bear to hope or feel positive. It makes him feel vulnerable and as though he is setting himself up for loss or disappointment if he doesn't get what he hopes for. So he paints everything in bland, colorless strokes. That way, when things go badly, he was ready for it and not at all disappointed.

Only, I don't want to be around him. His comments shrivel my soul. I need to hope and see the bright side of things.

Someone else I know has an awful story about anyone from the past who is named. "Sarah! That's the woman who told me ____________. Can you believe the nerve of someone who would do that?"
"Did you know that 40 years ago that man said _____________ and I've never forgotten it. It was dirty. Just plain dirty."
Or there are endless stories of what happened in the family of origin that made this individual feel miserable for most of her young life. The problem is, that she acts like it's happening now and not something that happened in the past--and that is now dead and gone. She is still trapped in the negativity of all sorts of unfortunate events and dynamics. Gilda is truly a victim of her own stories.

It's the only way I have traveled through life, being an optimist. Had hope been removed, I would never have come through--few people would get through the visissitudes of life without having things to cheer them. Without those bright spots (which some of us choose to embody in our lives more as a theme than a spot), we would be merely enduring or surviving--not worth calling life.

Our bodies react to stress within one heartbeat. Catecholamines begin to flood our systems and we instantly become physiologically aroused. It is no wonder that people who are stressed out and who live with the negative foremost in their minds are more likely than any to drop dead of a heart attack. Our bodies don't know the difference between a story of old, stressful news, and a brickbat being brandished over our heads by Godzilla. We react the same way with higher blood pressure, faster heart rate, and skin temperature changes. Since this is true, why don't more people choose to eschew the dreadful?

Recently, I found myself beginning to hum under my breath when around Gilda. Her endless stories of woe could send my blood pressure surging and I didn't want that. So as a way to calm myself in the presence of her hostile stories, I'd hum. She commented on it one day and I told her that her stories and negative comments were very disturbing to me. I was protecting my heart. She was surprised. And she still tells horrid, continual, pathetic stories. I just redirect her so I don't have to hear it and be negatively impacted.

Mostly I feel very sorry for Harry and my woman friend--both of whom are so negative. I imagine that one day in heaven, when we sit down at that mile long table, waited on by the Savior, there will be no negativity left. Harry and Gilda will smile, smack their lips and say, "Now that is mighty good!" and they will be happy in spite of themselves. No longer high maintenance people. Happy, good, positive, hopeful, no longer full of dread, rottenness, fear, and gloom.

Thank God.