| Do You Like What You Like? | ||
| First published in The Hartford Courant | Select another essay | |
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(I know it doesn't seem possible, but if you'll just pay close attention, you'll be able to follow what rm saying. Oh -- I also know there are 50 gazillion types of people in the world, but for the purposes of today's essay well say there are two.) Consider my two cats, Min and Novella Min, an erstwhile Lower East Side alley cat, is 18 years old and pretty much hates everything. She likes me, she likes Michael, and she likes food; she tolerates Novella, the adorable interloper. Given her personal history and age, I figure Min is entitled to her sense of universal contempt. She hates our friends and family, she hates the patient and thoughtful folks who look after her when we skip town for a couple of days, and she hates all the loving and caring folks at North Windham animal hospital who have (despite their own feelings) kept her alive all these years. This makes Min different from Novella, who would have developed a really bad reputation in high school if you catch my drift, because she will sit on anybody's lap. Sure, she likes us best, but she pretty much loves all humanity, all furniture, all rugs, and most major appliances; she loves the top of the computer (where she sits even as I type these words). She doesn't like thunder and she doesn't like balloons, but that's about it. Novella is a cheap date. Min doesn't like what she doesn't like more than she likes what she likes; Novella likes what she likes more than she doesn't like what she doesn't like. I love them both unconditionally and unashamedly, and I accept them for who they are. Which leads me directly to my friends Anita and Marie. like Novella, Anita is best and most fully known for her appetites while Marie, like Min, is defined most accurately through her aversions. At a big party, Anita will exhibit her characteristic tendency to eat all the appetizers, savoring every bite and murmuring small noises of deep satisfaction, oblivious to the fact that others are beginning to surround her in order to at least see what the food looks like. Anita pretty much enjoys any dish so long as it isn't moving or made from minerals; she is elated around edibles and everybody knows it. In contrast, Marie will visibly recoil if she is shown any form of foodstuffs she hasn't actually eaten before. She practically faints at the sight of seafood or seafood byproducts; she didn't eat seafood as a kid and sees no reason to start now. Marie eats what she knows -- meatloaf, mashed potatoes with butter (none of this fancy garlic-and-sour-cream business), iceberg lettuce, and cake. She is flexible in the cake department, however, making those of us who have her over for dinner go wild considering the possibility of whipping up "shrimp-shortcake-surprise" for dessert. I'm not trying to say that Anita should hire herself out as The Human Goat Girl or that Marie should be known as The Brat Who Will Not Be Pleased. But what is •significantly different about the two of them is that Anita more completely enjoys what she likes more than she is outraged by what she doesn't like whereas Marie is clearly and unapologetically more horrified by her nighmare foods than she is pleased by her dream foods. And both of them are great people and wonderful friends. It isn't quite the "glass is half-empty" vs. "the glass is half-full" because this isn't about basic divisions between optimists and pessimists, or the distinction between those on mood-elevators vs. those who are not. I'd say that most of the characters on "Seinfeld" or "Frasier", for example, base their humor on what they don't like; people love these shows. Artist-types have always been encouraged to torture themselves emotionally, not to mention wreaking havoc on the lives of others, offering proof of how special they are. The tastes of beautiful people everywhere are supposed to be exotic and highly specialized, running more toward organically raised, nurtured, and for all I know, highly educated vine-ripened peppers, whereas others of us are happy with string beans in a boil-in-bag. As for me, I suspect that I used to be of the Min/Marie camp in my youth -- more cautious, on guard, less likely to take risks -- but as I fling myself into middle age, I'm heading into the world of Novella/Anita, where sitting on laps and eating appetizers seems highly adequate compensation for whatever else comes my way. | ||