By Lois E. Wilson
Have you ever been trying to be polite and ask a simple question of the person you are greeting: “How are things with you?” It is as if you pushed a button. The person responds automatically in a lengthy monologue that goes something like this verse of mine:
SORRY YOU ASKED?
How are things with me? Well now, let me see, the sun’s not out—and the sky is gray, without a doubt it’s a dismal day; soon it will be raining—but I’m not complaining!
I clean my plate. Now my clothes don’t fit. I can’t lose weight, not even one whit. I just keep on gaining—but I’m not complaining!
I clean my plate, now my clothes don’t fit. I can’t lose weight, not even one whit. I just keep on gaining—but I’m not complaining!
My muscles ache and my back is sore; each move I make hurts me more and more. Everything is paining—but I’m not complaining!
My car won’t start; the heater’s gone cold. It needs a part, but it’s too darn old. All the oil is draining—but I’m not complaining!
My check is late, and the bills are due. The bank won’t wait; I’m overdrawn too. There’s no cash remaining—but I’m not complaining!
My Fred left me for his office girl. They’re off to sea for a two-week whirl. The whole flap was straining—but I’m not complaining!
You were so glad; you were smiling too. But now you’re sad, and you’re looking blue. There’s just no explaining—but I’m not complaining! Well, I’m on my way—so have a nice day!
As the person departs you think, I’ll never ask that question again—the answer was truly TMI—Too Much Information.