Not a laughing matter

The conversation with my sister included a long, drawn out story about a pre-adolescent breakdown that had occurred in my home the night before. “I just don’t have the tolerance for these meltdowns, especially when…” and that’s when she started to laugh. And didn’t stop. The pitch began to rise, the emphasis gained momentum, and the frequency increased. Harder and harder she laughed, until I finally caught on and said, “Aaaaaargh…I know!” Sensing my ultimate understanding of the situation her volume amplified, and she laughed even harder. “I’m hanging up on you now,” I said in mock irritation with her and sincere irritation with myself. I clicked off the phone and quickly reflected on bits and pieces of my adolescence from whence the giggles of my elder sibling originated. I called her back shortly, her chuckling now reduced to simmering snickers of amusement, and she tried (ineffectively) to conjure up validating experiences to try to make me feel better.

The thing is, I was not a rebellious teenager. But I was a VERY moody teenager. I don’t know how they managed to keep letting me in the door at the end of the day back then, and frankly I’m a little surprised that I’ve turned out to be such a delightful character. What I do know is that my mom eventually ran out of ideas and that’s when she would send my sister to try and figure out what the hell was wrong with me how she could help. It’s why she knows so much, and why her laughter might have been warranted.

“I’m just worried that she has an anxiety problem,” I tried to explain. She chuckled at the irony of my assertion and encouraged me to write it down for posterity. I gave up on our topic of conversation, making a mental note of all parental hypocrisy instilled since the day my first child was born and called a trophy store to have "Do as I say, not as I do (did)" engraved on a plaque. It should be here in a couple of weeks.