You like to think of yourself as benign. Yet you act malignant. For instance, when faced with an attractive parking spot and a competing car, you are likely to lunge. No pause for a deep breath. No contemplation. No wondering whether rock-star parking is worth bad karma. Likewise, in your backstage duties at ballet, you are capable of identifying the fluffiest pink tutu and handing it to the sole dancer who happens to be your daughter.
You are not proud of these acts of gratuitous selfishness. You merely recognize them.
But now you wonder if your bad behavior has metastasized into bad news. You consider your misdeeds in a new light. A harsh, clinical light. The same ruthless glare under which surgeons with well-scrubbed nails and close-fitting gloves assess an area normally confined to the modesty of your brassiere. Calmly, they drill a hole and rout out curls of flesh. Small ones to be sure. But ones in which you took a certain proprietary interest. You like a tight fit between body and soul.
After which, as instructed, you wedge a bag of frozen peas under your sweater and slouch to the bakery. Slumped in a wooden chair, you stare morosely at a cinnamon muffin. The doctors will give you a call in a few days.
A rather long few days.
You are aware that diseases are capricious creatures. There’s no telling how they select their homes or why they decide to pack up and go. It’s probably best not to dwell too deeply on these mysteries.
And yet, you cannot help but feel implicated. You know you are supposed to fortify your defenses with yoga and fresh fruit, with scrupulously timely check-ups and compliant follow-up. You ought to think good thoughts. And yet, you don’t. You are guilty of the sort of petty malignancy you suspect counts heavily in the grand tally of life’s demerits: Reaching–slowly–for the elevator’s Door Open button. Snapping at the whining child. Neglecting to return phone calls. Breakfasting on M&M’s.
All weekend you attempt benign. You pick up stray litter. You indulge the pre-reader in an extra chapter. You decline arguments, small and large. You list the good qualities of someone annoying. You eat oranges.
Monday morning the girl with the latex gloves calls. You reach for a pen and the flip side of a schoolroom art project. You write down all the words you understand: benign. You know, deep in your healthy tissue, that you cannot claim credit. You smile. Not benignly. But with profoundly selfish relief.
