Everyday Woman of the Week, episode 1

"Sharon" has a black belt in the art of self-induced anxiety

with Penny Ramble

Sharon Preckwinkle, “grand master” black belt in the art of self-induced anxiety

Hi ladies! Welcome to my weekly column featuring some of my close friends and their various mid-life neuroses. There are so many things to get fixated on these days, but I have to say that Sharon’s issues really take the cake. She whips herself into a frenzy over some pretty weird shit and someone needs to air her dirty laundry before she develops black mold in her frontal lobes. Already lost: her self-control and judgement. I fear the loss of “executive function” and “voluntary movement” may be next.  So sorry Sharon, but at the risk of our no longer being friends, I’m calling you out.

Let’s start with a musical appetizer. It’ll help all you readers get into my headspace.

Today’s musical appetizer: “Loser” by Beck

Imagine, if you will, all the middle school kids in the neighborhood that Sharon tortures with her nitpicking. If you’re up for the full-on immersion into “Life of Sharon,” try spending an afternoon on NextDoor.com, the “Twitter” of bored, self-righteous white people who live in cul-de-sacs. There is some twisted hateful shit on NextDoor. And wouldn’t you know, Sharon happens to be addicted to it.

Sharon’s big concerns have a lot to do with her neighbors. Now… just want to be really clear: we live in a small town and Sharon has been living next to the same people for years. Yes, they’ve gotten older and some dye their hair, but pretty sure they’ve not joined any subversive organizations and I’m positive they’re not out to get her as she is fucking dull as rocks. Also need to point out that I am not relating one iota to Sharon’s obsession with the neighbors’ recent activities. In fact, I’m starting to think she’s losing her marbles.

Let me give you some examples that came up when we met up for breakfast at the Golden Bagel. I’m going to preface all of this by pointing out a few important facts of Sharon’s life, for those of you who are out-of-the-loop. Sharon’s husband left about a year and a half ago, apparently because he was sick of her gluten-free cooking, her obsession with orchids and her waning interest in sex. Roger was bored out of his friggin’ mind. He now spends every weekend taking Japanese tourists up in hot air balloons at the crack of dawn. A lot better than living with Sharon, apparently, plus he gets great tips.

For all that Sharon complains about Roger, at least he didn’t humiliate her with an affair. That’s something, right? And he leaves her alone. If he sees her in public, he crosses the street. And the alimony checks arrive the first of every month like clockwork. But on Sharon’s home front it is pretty sad, what with the menagerie of homeless cats that gather on her back porch every morning and her needy arrogance about her Swiss chard and eight varieties of cherry tomatoes. Sorry Sharon, but who gives an actual fuck?!

So I’ll just say this: I was totally irritated about Sharon’s shit before I even ordered my everything bagel with a lox schmear and capers. In fact, I was developing hives on my neck and chest just from the thought of having to listen to her gripe for what would likely be a couple of hours.

As always, Sharon was running late. When she finally arrived (in her usual flurry of angst), everyone in the coffee shop halted their conversations to stare at her. One couldn’t help but be affected by what appeared to be a woman going through a nervous breakdown, all whilst tastefully attired in a powder blue velour jogging ensemble. Not sure who ever came up with the concept of doing cardio in velour, but there it was on Sharon, with matching slip-on Skechers. Pretty sure the jogging suit was from our local resale shop – “Deja New.” Sharon goes there every Tuesday morning when they have the 2-for-1.

I barely get in my “how are you doing” before Sharon announces loudly that she is off of coffee as it gives her too much anxiety. She orders a green tea latté and the keto eggs benedict. While we wait for her order (I’d already finished my breakfast 45 minutes ago 😡), she barrels right into the complaint du jour: POMPOUS GRASS. Did I realize how invasive it was and besides that, it doesn’t blend in well with the native plants in the gardens of the Craftsman houses in the neighborhood, blah, blah, blah. My eyes are glazing over, but I’ve got on my Ray Bans and she can’t see that I’m slipping into a coma. Then, after barely catching a tablespoon of oxygen, Sharon moves on to her next concern: neighbors who wash their cars in front of their house while wearing pajamas. Don’t I find that offensive? I smile ever so slightly and say nothing. I am one of those neighbors. So fuck you, Sharon.

I need to interject one detail here: watching Sharon breathe like someone who is experiencing a life-threatening asthma attack hugely raises my cortisol levels. As a result, my face turns crimson and I find myself sympathetically imitating her breathing. My apparent distress is of no concern to her, however, as she barrels without hesitation into her next round of complaints, this before I can even pull the inhaler out of my purse. Should we call the police about the grade school kids riding scooters on the sidewalks? Had I noticed that some neighbors selected obscene names for their wifi networks – “feeling_naughty,” “icanseeyoushowering,” and “ballsack”? Should we report them? And to whom?! The Federal Bureau of Wifi?

Then she’s on to all the seasonal issues about holiday décor. She felt it was time to put our foot down about Halloween decorations as some of the teenagers on her block had carved what looked like genitals on their pumpkins last fall. Jesus, it’s Easter weekend and we’re talking about pumpkins? And then there were all those fake cobwebs that presented a hazard to birds and squirrels, blah, blah, blah and did I notice an increase in the number of possoms in the neighborhood? Some were crawling under her fence. Did I think that was because of Shelly’s compost heap? Should we make sure Shelly wasn’t putting meat scraps on it?

The grand finale, however, was Sharon whipping out her petition about FABRIC SOFTENER. Some of the neighbors were using the wrong Febreze seasonal scents. She felt this was confusing for those who have sensitive olfactory organs. It was spring and one of our neighbors, apparently, was using the “Fresh-Cut Pine” scent instead “Sweet Peony.” Would I sign the petition asking them to comply with her “accepted seasonal scents” list?

As we parted ways in the parking lot, Sharon handed me a poster for her “Divorce Garage Sale.” Roger had left in such haste he’d left nearly all of his possessions at her house (and had no intention of coming back to collect them). Gee, I can’t imagine why. Hopefully one of the neighbor kids is in need of a $7000 Santa Cruz mountain bike, which I noticed is tagged at $125.

With friends like Sharon, who needs enemas?