At the moment--and even just typing this down I get nervous about it--things are going quite well. Josh has been doing his job remarkably well. Professionally, things are going better than I could have hoped for when I was starting this odd merry-go-round ride. I can't complain.
For someone like me, that's a huge problem.
I'm a kvetch. (Gentiles, that's someone who complains a lot.) Most of the grousing is faux; that is, a lot of the time it's for effect rather than sincere despair over one's lot in life. I know I'm lucky overall. I have an amazing wife, two terrific children who are no longer children, a home that's comfortable without actually being, you know, neat. I'm in decent enough health for someone who exercises once every other month and eats like food is the enemy that needs to be vanquished.
But there's always something that's a little off, whatever it is. I worry, and worry becomes anxiety, and anxiety becomes Electra, or something, so I end up complaining, or at the very least, being snarky about things. Part of that comes from my learning the art of conversation at the feet (celluloid is measured in feet) of Groucho Marx, who did not come by his nickname by accident.
Every Independence Day my family and I like to watch the musical 1776, for reasons that hopefully are obvious. We like our Founding Fathers witty and tuneful.
This year was no exception. Near the end of the film (which sticks very close to the stage play), John Adams is talking (writing) to his wife Abigail. Turns out the dialogue is taken from an actual letter Adams sent during the time at the Continental Congress while independence was being debated:
"I've always been dissatisfied, I know that. But lately I find that I reek of discontentment. It fills my throat, and if floods my brain. And sometimes I fear there is no longer a dream, but only the discontentment."
Luckily I've never gotten to quite that point, but then I've never been stuck trying to create a country when some people wanted to keep reconciling with England. It's hard to really understand the pressure the man was under. Luckily he foisted off the writing to his (at that time) pal Jefferson, or who knows how snarky the Declaration of Independence would be?
The problem for people like John and me (I have an affinity for Adams and he's not around to insist I refer to him as "Mr. President") is that when things are going well, we're at a loss for a reaction. We don't know how to respond to compliments. We have egos--his I will dare say considerably better developed than mine--but we can't acknowledge them for fear of seeming too pleased with ourselves.
So we suffer (we always suffer) through these good periods, secure in our knowledge that the next hideous crisis is just around the corner and then we'll once again have something real to complain about.
I won't say I can't wait. I can wait.