How Are You Today? Answer Honestly Now.

The scenario that always comes up while discussing “complete honesty” is how to respond to the mostly meaningless question “how are you?” Some people think you should always say what you’re feeling, while others always answer “good” because they don’t want to explain why they’re not actually doing so good.  Then there are people like me who at their very worst, answer “I’m okay, thanks for asking!” because no one wants to hear a sad response. 

And I never hear a sad response from her.  When I ask her how she is, sometimes she hesitates and says “Oh, busy/tired, how about you?” as if her well being depends on her busyness and energy level.  I know those are her bad days, but I don’t bother her about it.  I don’t exactly know what her contentment depends on from day to day, but I understand what she’s been going through.

She is known for her caring.  She loves everyone and hates to hate.  She shares her house with nature and is an activist for the environment.  If you ever need information on water conservation, air pollution or animal testing, she’s your woman.  She lives a life that’s purposeful; she’s a mentor and an inspiration, without knowing it.  She’s not a teacher but she educates in things I don’t get from anyone else, like life and survival and people.  She encourages her kids to use a voice and speak up for what we believe in, even if no one agrees.  She points out the good things in us, even if we don’t believe her or appreciate it. 

Maybe she indulges herself in caring for the world so she can’t care for herself.  Taking care of oneself is so difficult; to make sure time is set aside to unwind and keep a hold on sanity, eat healthily, keep from getting stressed too much, and keeping emotions in check when all you want to do is quit your job, elope with a stranger in Vegas and play hide and seek with reality in its bright lights. 

I guess she focuses on everyone else to forget she has a life; her life is our life, and she asks for nothing in return.

 *

She has a doll that she bought from a craft store.  It’s wearing a pink dress and a frown, and has black stitches up its forearms.  I ask why.

“She committed suicide because she’s depressed,” she explains in a tone as if I should know this is the only logical reason a doll would be dead. 

Again, I ask “Why?”

“Well, life isn’t all smiles and happiness,” she replies.

I contemplate the purpose of a suicidal doll.  “That…makes sense….”

“She just sits on my desk and I take care of her,” she says as she picks it up and plays with its hair.

“Then she should be smiling, because she has you to take care of her!”  I say cheerily.

She laughs.  “Yes, well, I like her because I relate to her,” and bashfully says, “That’s my secret.”

I nod.  I understand completely, but it doesn’t keep me from wanting to pick up this woman twice my size and age, and rock her to sleep.