Sometimes, I don’t like happy people. Sometimes, I want to luxuriate in my own bad mood without chronically joyful folks invading my space. Sometimes, I just want the world and all its inhabitants, and even Mother Nature, to join me in feeling grumpy. The proverbial misery loves company, you know?
Which is why on a recent morning I found my husband, Doo, so annoying. I came downstairs to him watching a “SNL” recap on his phone, oscillating between grade-school giggles and uproarious laughter. This went on for a solid 15 minutes, and my temperament — which had started at “Blessings, it’s cold and gray outside” — nosedived to, “Ugh, you’re ruining everything!” He was too gosh-darned happy for my pre-coffee, introverted, already-in-a-funk-self to handle, and of course, in my tactless manner, I told him exactly that. Doo, with a big smile, simply responded, “Deal with it.”
My teaching neighbor, who is school-renowned for her high-energy kindness and spontaneous hugs, is at least aware of her occasional toxic positivity (her words, not mine) and can rein in the cheerfulness when necessary. A couple of my kids are like that, too. They can read when the room is gloomy and understand that force-feeding joy is not always the right play. And in fairness to Doo, he’s come a long way in accepting the idea that it’s OK to not constantly be OK.
But on this day, he clearly misread the “Your wife is in a snit; tread carefully” signs. Instead of moving to the kitchen and leaving me to wallow, he inadvertently exacerbated my blechtness with his obnoxious delight. So, yeah, sometimes I don’t like happy people.