The Case for Complaint

"No Crybabies." I saw this sign in the doorway of a chic retro-diner - or maybe it was on an American Express commercial. The expected reaction is oh, yeah, too true, I so agree. A colleague has a "no whining" sign on her wall, and as I eye it, nausea sets in. The sign may as well say "Lucy, get the hell outta here!" I like whining, it is an excellent hobby, and I don't mind telling you that I am rather good at it.

Who are these supposed adults who act like whining or crying or kvetching is too much for them because they are busy being cool and all put together? Does it mean that I am not supposed to be negative at all? Are we allowed to breathe? Is it like that New England saying "I can't complain?" I've got news: you can complain! If you just worked a 60 hour week, your back is killing you, and your kid has been suspended from school, you get to complain.

Why does a woman, to reverse Rex Harrison's asinine query, think she has to be more like a man? Don't get me wrong, I adored Rex in my formative years, despite his apish look and his absolutely loathsome behavior, I was as idiotic as the next girl, repressing my true lust for Audrey who was quite obviously the hottie in the picture. Nevertheless, one was manipulated to want Rex's attentions, to stop whining, to stand up straight, to act as though being thrown in the gutter and then utterly used and mistreated like so much upholstery were a flattery. I fell for it, too.

But no more. I will complain, proudly, and I find it utterly irritating and fundamentally cloying when women tell me they can't complain. What is it in them that cannot do it? My pat answer is 'sure you can.' Complaining is really giving a report that is less than positive. Must one always give a cheery run-down of the day even if it was goddawful? I can imagine Chrystal, my dear partner-in-crime: "why, Lucy, it was a wonderful sight! The older boy had smacked the younger boy, and I was yelling at full lung capacity! It was quite exhilarating."

How did this happen in our free and progressive culture? If a woman is healthy, then there is no reason to be bothered by anything. Your husband may be sleeping with your neighbor's husband's assistant, your dog ran away, you've just been fired, you're menstruating buckets, but you're healthy. So don't complain. No crybabies. And if a day comes when you are not healthy, tell everyone "it could be worse," or "at least the vomiting stopped after 3 days - I heard some people went for five." A cheery colleague will knock on wood and shrug.

Thus I now endeavor to practice what I preach: I don't have enough money to do what I want and I want to quit working five days a week (whose dumbass idea was that); I have too much fucking housework to do and I would like a magic fairy to do it for me; it's cold out and I do not ski and my winter coat looks like a bad mushroom; my cough won't go away and it chokes me just as my nagging is starting to roll; school vacation is too short; my hair takes forever to dry so then I am even colder; I want someone to come take care of me but I keep having to do it my own self; I want a new pair of pants and I cannot find them; I don't have a good book to read and I am overwhelmed by all of the blogs in the blogworld; our country's being run by a puppet with a bald old dick for a puppeteer; I wanna be a rock star and I am totally not; I still get zits and I'm in my forties, and the one I messed with now looks like a bruise on my left cheek; no one cards me anymore, and waitresses are flummoxed by the small request to keep the goddamn ice outta my tequila.

And, sadly, I am not Audrey Hepburn. Oh, the poise, the hair, the talent. Alas, I am sure she did not complain - not Audrey - so I will resign myself to being more in line with the aptly named Lucy and her pal Ethel, perhaps, or the creepy little nudge in Lord of The Rings, going ga-ga over his precious bit of gold. He may not have been good-looking or particularly friendly, but that troll knew how to whine.