Saturday, November 08, 2008

happiness is only a day away

My friend Gwen’s foray into amateur psychology seems to occur each time she breaks up with whoever she happens to be dating at the time. So when the guy she had been seeing for three months ended their relationship, I knew that Gwen would once again be holding office hours.

Apparently, her latest boyfriend had shaved his head one day and told her that he needed to seek ‘redemption’ for his ‘past sins' and couldn’t see her anymore. When she asked what sins required a penance of self-induced baldness, he told her that she wouldn’t understand and that he needed to embark upon a ‘personal self-empowerment odyssey’ that had to be travelled alone.

A week later, she saw him with another woman whom she described as a ‘blonde tramp with excessive boobitude’. He had clearly found room for one other person on his personal odyssey. This led Gwen to empty her Carmel Latte onto his beige chinos. “So at least he’ll be that much damper while he continues down the path to enlightenment,’ she told me.

Since this outpouring of coffee beverages, she has devoted herself fully to all things of a self-improving nature…with the exception of her weekly dose of Desperate Housewives. Why Men Love Bitches, Women Who Love Too Much, and Breaking the Chain of Low Self-Esteem are all titles which have since appeared on her Amazon suggested reading list.

“Clearly he was an unbalanced individual,” she told me a few days later, once her drink-hurling desires began to subside. “You know, I think it’s entirely possible that he was a polaroid schizophrenic.”

“Gwen, don’t you mean a paranoid schizophrenic?”

“And I had always suspected that he was bipolar,’ she continued, ignoring my correction of her previous diagnosis.

Her recent binge on self-help psychology books has her analyzing everyone…not just ex-boyfriends. Her Pilates instructor has suddenly developed obsessive compulsive tendencies. Her co-worker projects a deep rooted self-loathing upon those around her. And her mother should really begin dealing with the guilt complex that she has been harboring.

I was talking to Gwen on the phone the other day, describing the newest bone-headed measure my boss has cooked up to increase sales, when she suddenly asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I answered.

“No,” she said, “something is definitely wrong. I can hear it in your voice. You sound depressed. Look, I only want to help you before this develops into a full-blown manic depressive episode.”

“I highly doubt that any episodes are forth coming,” I countered.

“You spend too much time alone," she insisted. "When’s the last time you were on a date? You need to get out more often. Dr. Phil said on his show just the other day, ‘you won’t score any touchdowns if you’re sitting in the dugout’.”

“That’s baseball, Gwen, there are no dugouts in football. And anyway, I’m not in any dugout. It’s just a bit of a slump. Besides, I’ve been enjoying my alone time.”

“Look, the sports analogy isn’t what’s important here," she told me. "The fact is that all of your time lately is alone time. When did all this low self-esteem begin? When did it start?”

Listening to Gwen, it became very clear that overexposure to Dr. Phil had some very negative side effects. I sighed and, trying to humor her, said, “I don’t know…maybe it was that whole Atkins diet thing. I mean, you know how much I love bread…”

“Yes…and cookies, and muffins, and cake,” Gwen added.

“Yeah, yeah...well, as soon as carbohydrates became such a bad thing to eat, not only did my diet suddenly become that much worse but everything else seemed to follow suit. In fact, now that I think of it, nothing good has happened to me at all since this whole vilification of carbs. Rolls with dinner. Buns on hamburgers. Even pasta! Everything I enjoy eating makes me feel guilty. And if I can’t even be confident in the food I choose, how can I even begin to trust my judgment with members of the opposite sex?”

“This has to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard you say,” she told me. True, Gwen is no psychologist, but her bedside manner could certainly use some improvement. “How am I supposed to help you if won't even take this seriously? Maybe you should just stop eating so many stupid carbs. Who knows, maybe you'll be happier.”

Her diagnosis complete, she launched into a tirade about Angelina's twins that she had read in People magazine. While listening, I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bagel. Sitting down at the table, I stared at it and began wondering if a cut-back in carbs could actually lead to a happier life. I took a bite as I mulled this over, figuring that happiness would have to wait until tomorrow.

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