Yesterday, in the throes of a flushed feeling of unease, “a full-body tingling” that seems to occur monthly whose cause has yet to be determined by the cardiologists — that it doesn’t happen every night when the NewsHour’s on can be counted a blessing — I answered “not very well” when asked, casually, how I was feeling.
The stale, flat, and unprofitable mood I was in lightened soon after when the Bonac boys soccer team won a must-win game (played mostly in the dark as far as I could see), assuring it of a berth in the county tournament. It was a game in which three of our players scored — two for the first time in their varsity careers — and in which none of their players did. And, the next morning, the “spells” having receded, I inhaled the air deeply in walking out for the paper, happy to be alive, happy as a clam that the proverbial clammy hand had, for the moment, been withdrawn.
A congenital optimist — an affliction I’ve borne stoically since an early age — I can only withstand 10 minutes of depression, at the most.
In the postcards I used to send my parents from camp I always signed off, “Hope you’re feeling fine and having fun.” After seven-plus decades it’s still my hope.
And when you’re not feeling fine or having fun, as was the case with me yesterday, it’s fun to have a job in which you’re often watching those who are feeling fine and are having fun. That’s the cure.