Nov. 6th, 2011

constance: (*orients*)
My father can be a difficult man on several different levels at once; it's one of his great talents in life. One of his low-level difficulties is that he's nearly impossible to please. Well, I mean, it can also be an extremely high-level difficulty, depending on what it is in particular that's not pleasing him -- his daughter's mere existence is likely to be more problematic for me, for example, than the fact that he cannot seem to enjoy a restaurant meal without finding something about it he doesn't like, the food, the company, the server, the restaurant itself.

More to the point, though, he cannot sit down to a meal he specially requested (pork roast stuffed with garlic, mashed potatoes, roasted corn, tomato salad, coconut cream pie) and that my mother spent most of the day on (and that, incidentally, was delicious), without finding something to be displeased about. And I was thinking, as I watched the small and stressful drama of his displeasure unfold around us on his birthday, that I am so fiercely glad that I've striven to be unlike him in this way.

I'm in my forties now, and I am still pleased by my life on a daily basis, and if I prayed at all, I would pray for it to stay that way until the minute I die. What happens to your life when you stop taking any pleasure in it? I never want to know, never, never.


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