I have been told I’m a team leader. I have been told that I am a social butterfly and a friend maker. I have been told that my glass is always half full. So why, oh why, do I despise the overly enthusiastic so very much?

I’ve noticed this about myself since elementary school. I just can’t be THAT excited ALL of the time. But some people can be.

You know the type…

She shows up to class early on the first day and sits in the front row. She asks irrelevant questions and smiles as if she’s just won Miss America. She screeches when she sees a little dog on the street and most sentences are prefaced by the phrase:

“Ohhhhhhh Myyyyyyyyy Goddddddd!!”.

She’s chipper. And more or less, she’s a good person. I mean, these kinds of people have never really crossed me, per se. They don’t steal, they don’t hit old ladies, nor do they instigate drama. The only thing I suppose they do wrong is….well…drive me f*cking nuts.

I’m not an antisocial creep. I’m not an unhappy person. In fact, I’m pretty happy go lucky! So why do these overly enthusiastic people me make want to kick and scream?

And is anyone else out there with me?

“Glenn,” my husband declared, “this routine has got to change. I accept that you’re in mourning, but you can’t be self-destructive like this.” He was right. We both agreed that I either “suck it up” and get through this first semester as a junior professor or that I resign immediately and look for a job outside of academia. We had this conversation over dinner one night, and just few days before classes resumed.

As I had become accustomed to my new routine of binge-drinking, it was on this rare occasion that I found myself actually sober and even hungry. My husband, Jason, had surprised me with a home-cooked meal of hand made gnocchi – one of his many specialties. Along with his gift for making fantastic Italian food, he also had a special way of giving me advice in the simplest terms. As he poured me a nice glass of Sangiovese, he gave me these two options. Recalling my days as a pianist and listening to the meticulous clicks of a metronome, my ears followed each syllable that rolled off his tongue and onto his lips. And, as I listened my eyes were fixated on that empty wine glass. I watched it change into a brilliant kaleidoscope, bursting with swirls of various deep red hues. Once he had finished speaking, I watched the wine settle, and suddenly I felt a rush of confidence.

“Jason, you’re right,” I said. “I’ll quit this new job and find something different.” That declaration and the agreement we made that late August evening filled me with a type of hope that I had previously thought died with my mother. That renewed hope, however, was soon dashed when I met Jack and his volatile middle-aged ego. Read More »