I’m in a foul mood, the kind my students used to fear. I’ve broken out in hives once again so last night I had to take one of those powerful, knock you into next week allergy pills the doctor prescribed for the insufferable itching. Today I’m feeling miserable: bloated, tired, bitter, antisocial, and whiny. I wish I had a trash can retreat.
Oscar the Grouch made it okay to not be a pretty princess in pink when I was a little girl. Oscar was moody, sarcastic, whiny, and unfriendly. I admired his pluck but more importantly, his willful commitment to being a jerk no matter what advice he got from bubbly Big Bird. Oscar was okay with himself. I don’t know that I’m quite there yet. I often feel guilty about my moodiness, which, over the years, I’ve managed to cool to rare flare-ups. Actually, it only seems to happen when I’m home alone, my overwhelming schedule temporarily quiet. Maybe that is when I take stock of my life and wonder when I will “turn my frown upside down.”