On Taking Things Too Seriously

I do. Yes, I do. I know I do. But that doesn't make the trait disappear.

And I do know how to laugh. And I know I don't do it frequently enough.

(Good friends are those with whom you automatically laugh about the nothings of life. I stopped at Rio Café after rehearsal last night and giggled with Eduardo until Richard said, "You two are just alike. Two peas in a pod." And that made me laugh even more.)

So, because I take everything so seriously, I loved today's poem from the Writer's Almanac. I hope it makes you smile on this Wednesday morning.

(And I have to preface your reading of this poem by admitting that one of my greatest pet peeves is when people tell me to breathe. By God, if I'm having a crisis, you can respect my crisis and emit soothing sounds or just shut up. Don't, for crying out loud, superciliously tell me to "breathe.")

Poem: "To the Man in a Loden Coat" by Deborah Garrison, from The Second Child. © Random House, 2007.

To the Man in a Loden Coat

Hey, mister
man in a loden coat
standing in front of me
on the escalator and blocking my
way—
I know
I'm self absorbed,
particularly at this hour,
5:22 to be precise and I need
to make the 5:25 home—
don't you know that in this city,
in this life, we
walk on the left,
stand on the right?

Don't tell me to chill out,
don't tell me to "breathe,"
I hate breathing
I mean unless it is happening
without my knowing it,
which is, thank God, most of the time,

and don't tell me life is long
because it actually isn't
it's all I can do not to
give you a sweet shove
on your rich loden back,
same as all the bottled-up
left-lane travelers
behind me want to do
to my own navy-clad shoulder,
a nice blue to your green,
like water for the earth,
sky for the forest,
green and blue a tea for two,
etc., among the vistas
that call me home now,
at 5:23, about to miss the bus,
so would you please

MOVE OVER?