This morning I stumbled upon a recipe for combating the throes of Life-is-Solitary-Poor-Nasty-Brutal-and-Short-itis. I've listed the steps below, but please remember: This method has been tested on a sample space of one. Your mileage may vary.
- Start drinking at noon.
- Maintain a pleasant, low-grade buzz for about eight hours among work colleagues whose company you really enjoy.
- Collapse early and get about 10 hours of sleep.
- Wake up to a cool, clear morning without a hangover. Venture forth to move your car.
- Find an alternate-side space in 45 seconds.
- Grab a coffee at your local. Stroll out to your favorite spot overlooking the old-growth forest in your neighborhood.
- Strike up a conversation with the young couple who are out strollering their two-week-old baby.
- Regard the unique blend of beatific fatigue/terror in their eyes as they admit that Grandma left yesterday.
- Recall the first few days alone with your first son after Grandma Jellyspoon managed to pry herself from your urgent, desperate clutches.
- Remember how you watched your kid's fontanelle throb while he slept and thought, "Jesus, he doesn't even have a full skull."
- Remember how you whistled past the graveyard by enumerating the myriad ways you could accidentally spill your child's brains.
- Remember what an alarmist putz you were.
- Listen to their birth story. Resist the desire to tell them yours. Let this be about them.
- Listen to their freakouts. Tell them they sound pretty normal. Tell them it gets easier, and that caring for an infant in Manhattan is way more convenient than they think.
- Accept the couple's offer to hold their daughter. Take a furtive sniff of her soft, powdery, beautiful head. Repeat as necessary.
- Realize that even though this might be someone's last day of life, it's also someone else's first.
- Get over yourself, already.
