it's in the eye of the beholder

A few days ago a call came in on my landline. Now, normally I don’t answer that phone, because anyone who knows me and wants to talk to me calls my cell; and if they don’t know my cell number then 99 times out of a 100 it’s someone I don’t want to talk to.

Also, if no one picks up my landline, on the fourth ring it automatically goes to an answering machine. I listen to the message, just to see who it is. (This comes in particularly handy during election time.) Normally it’s someone I don’t wish to converse with, but if it is a “person of interest” then I pick up.

On that particular day and that particular occasion the voice that came over the speaker was that of a woman whom I went to school with and have not seen in several years. I picked up the receiver and said, “I’m here.” She immediately gushed out several sentences about how long it’s been since we last saw each other, and how much she misses me, yada yada, and then just as she began to gasp for air asked how things are going for me. 

I said, “I can’t complain.” And then purely from rote I said, “And how are you?”

She said, “Well, not so good, I’ve been sick off and on for the past few years and things are not good with the marriage, and my children don’t care anything about me…..” With each sentence the whine in her voice got louder and more pronounced and I began to regret my decision to pick up the phone. I finally interrupted her to say I had been on my way out the door and that I was late to an appointment in Cedar Hill (I did not lie, I actually HAD been on my way out the door and I really DID have an appointment) and asked if I could call her later.

She said, “Well, ok, I guess, but you promise me you’ll call.” I said I would definitely call her later and then said goodbye.

Off and on since that day I have thought about the phone call. At times I have chastised myself for not calling her back. But then immediately I find myself making excuses to myself for not calling. Examining my motives, I find that I have neither the need nor the desire to buy into what promises to be a long and involved pity party. You see, I discovered some time back that I’m what is referred to (in terms you’ll not find in the DSM 5) as a "fixer."  And I have, to my detriment, spent way too many hours listening to somebody gripe and complain about one thing or another and voice their general unhappiness with life when there’s actually nothing I can do to help that person, much less relieve their pain; and while I become the ear they need (yes, we all at times need an ear), all I really accomplish during those sessions is making myself depressed.

There are people who are on my list of facebook friends who seem to document every five minutes of their life, no matter how mundane. Still others have a penchant for “sharing” every cute little cartoon or saying about doggies or kitties or birdies or (insert the name of your least fave animal) from every Tom, Richard, and Harvey who also shares every little thing with them in what seems to be a never-ending spiral. (One friend used to forward to me everything that came into her email box; these days she has a wider audience and shares those same items with all her facebook friends. My joy is unbounded.)

Now, I’m not yet comfortable enough with actually “unfriending” someone but I did learn that I can “unfollow” them and that way I simply don’t have to bother clicking and saying I don’t want to see that particular post. Too bad all of life is not managed as easily, because no matter how you dress it up, drivel is still drivel, and I simply don’t have the time.

Items of interest, like beauty, are in the eye of the beholder. Yes, I'll call her later. But there's no telling when that "later" might be. The "fixer" in me is retired; I hung up my superhero cape quite some time ago. And I refuse to feel guilty about it. So sue me.