No Really, How ARE You?

Nobody ever cares how you are. Nobody wants to know. When they ask how you are, all they want is for it to be noted that they know to say The Right Thing. They feel obligated to show the world that their mother taught them manners. That’s all.

I hate how are you. I want everybody to care when they ask me, or not to ask me at all. Actually, even more than that, I want to be asked what can be done to make me better. However well or not well I am, I want to know someone Really Cares. Enough that they’d be willing to interrupt their lives. Because asking how someone is doesn’t really interrupt someone’s life. It means nothing to them – that’s why they toss it out to everyone they know. It’s quick, it’s easy, it makes them look good.

That’s not enough for me.
My mother was taken to the hospital Wednesday night via ambulance. I went to work on Thursday and Friday like I normally do. All my work got done. I didn’t cry at my desk. Aside from taking over Tuna’s office twice for privacy before he’d gotten in to make phone calls, and spending more time than usual on the telephone, nobody at work would have really known.

Except that I told Tuna. Mostly because he arrived at work to find me behind his closed office door. Thursday morning Nice Partner was zooming out of the office to a deposition and had a client with him – clearly not a time for personal conversations. Name Partner and I have never had any personal conversations. I feel like I’m stepping on his toes when I ask if he’ll be in the office tomorrow. We don’t do personal.

I never told my roommate, The New Steamroller. Even though we’re getting along swimmingly, and we have talked more in the last week than I ever talked to the original Steamroller in over six months of living together.

Now that I’m on the Social Committee, the Head Grandma and I talk a lot – and at one point on Thursday she gave me A Look, and asked if I was okay. She’s my favorite of all the grandmas, but I gave her a perky smile and assured her I was. The fact that she gave me a second look was all I needed to feel noticed and cared about. I didn’t need her to gush all over me and make a big fuss, which is what would have happened had I told her.

As absolutely unrealistic as it is, I want people to magically call me up and ask after me. Not just if they find out a crisis is going on, but all the time. Actually it’s not that magical. I think when people are close, they can do things like that. Wednesday afternoon I almost called my mother apropos of nothing, but then got busy and didn’t do it. I hadn’t called her in over a week before that, but something on Wednesday made me feel like it was the thing to do.

Tuna gave me the standard “I hope she’s okay, take whatever time you need” speech, even though as an associate I don’t think he really has the power to grant me time off that way. But I knew what he meant, and appreciated it just the same. That was Thursday. On Friday he never asked how my mother was doing, or if I was alright. Maybe he was busy. Maybe his own mother is in the hospital. Maybe he’s got his own life and he can’t handle hearing about anyone else’s problems.

Supposedly, when people are getting ready to commit suicide, they take steps that others close to them should notice. They get their affairs in order. For teenagers that means giving away their precious CD’s, their favorite lighter, writing down on Hello Kitty stationery who gets which of their best clothes and hiding the paper between their mattress and boxspring to be found later. For adults it means making a will, paying off debts, making it clear who should raise their kids.

But there’s a whole other section of people. The people who aren’t about to commit suicide, but simply walk around wanting to be noticed and cared about. The people who don’t feel noticed and cared about. Those people need more than a trite “how are you?” They need someone to really care how they are, and strive to make them happier.

Some people believe you have to create your own happiness. Those people must not be the ones who believe in the It Takes a Village theory. I can strive and strive to do things that make me happy, but I will still notice when a hot guy looks through me as he drops a door on me. I don’t strive to be happy. I strive to be content. Content makes me happy. Actual happiness is a bonus.

Just for the record, in case you haven’t figured it out yet. I’m not polite for the sake of being polite. I don’t say “How are you?” to people I don’t care about. If I ask, it’s because I really care. I’m ready to sit down, take my shoes off, and really listen. And you can damn well believe that as you talk, I’ll be thinking about if there’s anything I can do to make you happier. To make you feel listened to. Noticed.

If I ask, I really want to know. I want to hear whatever the truth is. How ARE you??