THE ESSENCE OF A COMPLAINT

I want something to complain about.

In winter, I often find myself complaining about the stupid snow, the shoveling, and the snot freezing to my face. But it’s summer. Maybe I could complain about mowing the lawn.

Except, I recently purchased a used lawn mower that actually holds the clippings in the bag. The new wheels don’t wobble, as though at any minute, they could fly off and hit a bird, which in turn would leave the turning blade spinning in the grass, making a dirt circle that humorously reminds me of a dude that I used to work with at the yacht club who was always on acid. He would spend the whole day weed whacking the flowers, the leaves still on the trees, and occasionally, the air, because he said that human size bugs were attacking him. I wouldn’t doubt he is a CEO of some major company these days.

It has been a really sticky, humid summer, which feels like the perfect complaint.

Crap. Another issue prevails. Not only do I have working air conditioning that is comfortably set at seventy-two, but a swimming pool stands in the far back corner of the yard. Well, let’s be frank, shall we? It’s not technically a swimming pool. It’s more like a vinyl lined gathering hole to hang out with friends in waist-deep water while sipping cocktails and receiving a little know vitamin called, D.

There are three celebratory balloons floating in my dining room, yet there is no party. Finally, a complaint worth mentioning.

Oh, wait. The balloons were from my weekend guests who drove three hundred miles to stay with me. My dear friends were dropping their only child off at college and they chose to spend their last weekend as a family unit together with, you got it, yours truly. In the midst of all the rite of passages for both teen and parents trying to be tough, we celebrated a golden birthday.

In trying so desperately to complain, my visitors unknowingly wouldn’t allow it. They complimented my lawn. We roasted hot dogs over the fire. Together, we stood in the watering hole for hours on end sipping adult beverages and staying wet up to our waistlines. We devoured ice cream cake in the perfectly air-conditioned house. There was more than enough money in my bank account to cover the pedicures and tequila bar. We even enjoyed a night out on the town which entailed one of my favorite hobbies–people watching.

Hmmm…I think I’m thinking something thoughtful.

What if the essence of a complaint has no basis? What if complaining is a mystical illusion? Or maybe, what if the perfect complaint is merely the absence of gratitude?