Aunt Erma's Cope Book (12 page)

The “Is Everybody Happy?” syndrome is just as bad. I used to wallow—no, nearly drown—in wonderful funky days of despair when nothing went right, and I loved it. Those down-in-the-dirty-pits days when I was unappreciated, overworked, underpaid, and had split heels from not wearing socks in the winter.

I couldn't win. My hair wouldn't curl. The hot water heater rusted out. My best friend's husband got a promotion. My child dropped a typewriter that belonged to the school. Someone asked me if my youngest was my grandchild. The car door froze shut on my morning to drive.

Maybe those days were why I appreciated the ones where my gynecologist said I just had flu, and the dryer only needed a fifteen-cent fuse.

This book is not a put-down of all self-help books. It focuses on the absurdity of paying $12.95 for a cookbook that tells you how to save money. It points out how ludicrous it is to read a book on guilt that threatens, “If you don't read this, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.” It takes on the books that take 362 pages to tell you, “Stop listening to advice and take control of your own life.”

After reading sixty-two books and articles on how to deal with oneself, I realized something was missing ... a sense of humor. I cannot believe that people look into the mirror that reflects their actions and behavior and keep a straight face.

There is a paragraph from Gail Sheet's Passages that seems to sum up a flaw most of us have when we pursue happiness: “Would that there were an award for people who come to understand the concept of enough. Good enough. Successful enough. Thin enough. Rich enough. Socially responsible enough. When you have self-respect you have enough, and when you have enough, you have self-respect.”

Aunt Erma's Cope Book fulfills a fantasy for me. I always wanted to be an authority on how to do something . . . ANYTHING! For years, I watched the Dr. Joyces, the Dear Abbys, the Mrs. Clarabelles, and the Miss Americas come to grips with the problems of life head-on.

After a year of research, it became apparent to me—the only “how-to” book I had enough expertise to write was “How to Get from Monday to Friday in 12 Days.”

In her infinite wisdom, my mother offered yet another observation on my months of self-examination, devotion to improvement, and quest for happiness. She said, “I'll be glad when you hit menopause. It'll take your mind off your problems.”