Wednesday, April 7, 2004

It’ll be over by and by

Commentary by Betty Bell

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In Omaha, from whence I migrated, spring is featured every spring, and once the snow starts to go it goes faster than gas in an SUV. The sun zeroes in on your shoulders as if through a magnifying glass, where it stays until the pumpkins are ripe. Sweet-smelling lilacs cure the rampant winter doldrums and all of the citizens become light-hearted and gay. Here in upper backwash country, we’re still weeks away from getting even a whiff of lilacs.

Spring’s arrival is so dependable in Omaha that the psychiatrists all leave on the very first day, too savvy to keep springtime couches available when the masses are as stable and content as ever they will be. How different it is here—our stable time is winter. But winter’s leaving now—we don’t sponsor spring here, we’re trapped in winter leaving. We’re about mid-way through winter leaving, but it won’t be gone until the Fourth of July. We’re bound to have a major snowfall just before the Fourth.

What makes winter leaving harder to bear are the lovely teaser days sprinkled like M&Ms along the way, days that make our hearts surge with hope that this year is different. But glorious days only make us more vulnerable to upper backwash country’s unique affliction—Winter Leaving Emotional Fragility.

Here, our psychiatrists vacation in winter, our peak stability time, stability owed, I believe, to our shared faith--we aren’t at each other’s throats like Christians and Muslims. We all worship the same gods here, the snow gods, and not even the ACLU challenges our public worship. Psychiatrists begin to trickle back the middle of March when the first hints of emotional fragility appear. A psychiatrist’s financial well-being depends on Winter Leaving like a ski shop depends on Christmas.

Upper backcountry emotional fragility begins innocuously; often we don’t know we’re in trouble until we’re already knee deep. I’ve survived a slew of winter’s leaving, so many that I think I can speak of my travails as typical.

It begins on a morning in early March when I wake up with a hitch in my confidence, aware of a kernel of discomfort in my middle. Instead of bouncing out of bed and instantly knowing whether I’ll worship with snowboard, ski, or whatever--instead, I recall the cyclists I saw a few days prior. With the lifts still running, these three idiots swapped their boots for bike shoes and were maneuvering through patches of ice hunched into their shoulders like so many Ichabod Cranes. Whatever was their problem? Whatever were they trying to prove?

But that was days ago. This morning, already yet, it’s 36 in the shade, and a sudden heretical thought takes hold: Maybe this is the day I should get out my bike. Whoa. Maybe not. Shouldn’t I ski as long as possible? Aren’t I a dues-paying member in the Church of the Snow? Yeah ... But it would feel good to crank those pedals.

And thus it goes. Indecision time big time. Loss of confidence time. The beginning of emotional fragility that only gets worse. When it’s bad enough that even little Pearly Gate, my dog, is leery of jumping into my lap, I’ll sign up for time on the couch, and then when I’m prone, here are the beans I’ll spill:

I can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, Dr. Truelove. I’m really a textbook happy-go-lucky person—you know that—but in the past couple of weeks I’ve turned all the way grumpy. Even the tiniest little things tick me off. Like this woman I saw while I was on my way here—she was wearing shorts. And you know how cold it is. And her legs are already as brown as July—and even so they’re one big goose bump ... and I hate it that her brown legs trigger unworthy thoughts, that I wonder even for a minute if her tan’s phony from the booth or real from Mazatlan ... why am I consumed with these demeaning thoughts, Doctor? And another thing, I change my mind about what to do about every 15 minutes. One minute I’ve made up my mind to throw my skis in the car and drive north until I find a patch of snow big enough to whiz across like Hans Brinker ... and the very next minute I figure I’ll bike. But when I do finally opt to bike, I can’t make up my mind whether to wear wind pants over my shorts or just be brave—maybe it won’t cloud over and start snowing 10 minutes after I start. Another worry is my legs are white white white--and I don’t have a ticket to Matzalan, darned if I’ll sign up for time in the cancer booth, and I’m not gutsy enough to risk blinding everyone and just let them hang right out. Anyway, and this is a big deal, no matter which I decide to do everyone else is doing the other—I’m never in sync. But the bottom line is I know in my heart I shouldn’t goof-off and go play at anything. I should get out in the yard and scoop up all the stuff poking through the snow--and it ain’t crocuses, it’s dog poop. I admit that the poop-scoop scenario doesn’t have any more chance at center stage than beginning what back in Omaha they call spring cleaning, a rite I once performed religiously. So here’s what I’m up against: I have to choose between fun at the cost of major guilt, or responsibility at the price of major self-pity. What’s my healthy choice, Doc?

Fellow pilgrims, don’t tell me you don’t see yourself anywhere here—it’ll only prove you’re in denial. You’re due and overdue for your turn on the couch, but don’t fret--it’s not uncommon to be slow in recognizing personal upper backwash country emotional fragility. Don’t stew. Sign up. Get help. God bless.

The Idaho Mountain Express is distributed free to residents and guests throughout the Sun Valley, Idaho resort area community. Subscribers to the Idaho Mountain Express will read these stories and others in this week's issue.