Finding Comfort in Complaining

“Sarah!” my mother chirps warmly over the phone one dark October evening. I hear my father grunt before rumbling, “I’m here too, ya know.”

“How are things,” my mother asks, and I hear dishes banging. She’s probably loading the dishwasher, and I wonder what they had for dinner. Today feels like a meatloaf night, or maybe a frozen pizza, or maybe she went ahead and made her own, dough and sauce and all.

“I hate people,” I say, and my father perks up.

“Oh, people are the worst,” he says, “loud, stinking, annoying people.”

“On my flight back from New Jersey,” I say, launching into a diatribe before anyone can sideline the conversation, “I sat next to some guy who took his shoes off and his socks,” I say, “his socks! Can you believe it??”

“Oh jeezus,” my father moans, “you’ll never convince me to get in one of those hell tubes! Flying, metal godawful tubes, they pack you in there like sardines. You’ll never get me on one of those things.”

This is the reason I called, to have my father validate my hatred of people with his own, much greater, hatred of people. I live in a city, but my father lives on 120 acres. His ability to avoid people is something I profoundly envy, especially when I’m trapped in a metal hell tube.