My sister recently made a list for me, about me and the things I "don't like." Some people would call this a hate list, but I tend to be a bit more euphemistic. My list is pretty lengthy and just keeps getting longer. Some of the things I "don't like": pillows on my bed, meetings, people who say they "love the fall," art museums, nature, malls, driving, cookouts, people who have perfect ponytails and so on and so forth. Nonsense, random, trivial peeves I harbor. Hilarious, ridiculous, strict guidelines I live by. I look at my list and chuckle, nod and agree with myself: yes, all of these things have a place, but no place near me.
Sometimes I don't have a day where I want to laugh at all of the things I can't stand. Some days I wake up and would rather not have an addendum to my negative list. Some days, I really wish I had a "things Mary Scott likes" list. Some days I wonder if I could.
One thing I do like, one thing I have always liked, is spending time alone. Last week I yearned to like. I thirsted for the chance to put myself away from everything so that maybe my "like" list could come into fruition.
To start my "like list," I first had to take a good hard look at my "dislike list." My options were greatly limited by all the things I do not like. So I decided to start liking some of them, because hey, how bad could nature be?
I hopped in my friend's car (driving, check) started to drive away from Grounds (nature, check) and headed downtown (mall, sort of, check).
I can't remember when it was that I decided that being the sardonic, bitter-tinged dogmatic Mary Scott was more fulfilling than being the plain and simple content Mary Scott. I think the answer is that it is easier to be angry than it is to be happy.
The root of my anger is envy. How can people plan to go see a movie, buy some popcorn, settle down in their seats and enjoy their two hours of cinema? Aren't they worried that they're missing out on some great social scene? Aren't they afraid that the movie will be terrible and they wasted 10 bucks? Aren't they worried about the Proust they have yet to even crack open? Aren't they worried?
I was worried when I drove downtown. I was worried about where I would park, if I even had money to park, if I could park without hitting a million different obstacles. But then I realized that I liked the song playing on the iPod, that I liked driving down the hills of Charlottesville, that I liked looking at the little houses on the way to the mall. And I forgot, for a moment, what it meant not to like.\nNo one has ever written a happy short story. This is because no one wants to read about happy, content people. We crave scandal, tortured hearts, broken dreams. We don't care if Jimmy and Joan have been married for 30 years and love each other and their children and their Labrador. It just wouldn't be fair to read a story like that. Our envy would drive us crazy and we would throw the book down.
I have never felt compelled to write a "things I like" list. Maybe it's for the same reason no one has ever written a happy short story. Maybe it's because I always get distracted before I can get started. Maybe it's because I'm afraid it will make me cry.
I walked down the mall, back and forth. Alone. I think I was wearing my jean shorts and a T-shirt. I like my jean shorts. Those would go on my like list. I was looking for dogs to pet because above all else I like - love beyond reason, actually - dogs. I wanted to be alone with things I like because I had been feeling like maybe I didn't like anything at all when I hopped in my friend's car and drove away from Grounds. I was feeling sad and when I feel sad looking at my dislike list doesn't make me laugh. It doesn't make me feel any way at all.
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