BANISHMENT 21: Fixing People with Baked Goods

Today something very normal happened. I was on the phone and asked my friend how his day was. He took a second, a tiny little blip of a breath, and then said, "It was fine."

"Oh," I said. And then came the long, awkward pause. He didn't say anything because he knew he wasn't actually fine, and I didn't say anything because I knew if I did there was a very high probability that I would break out my Mel Gibson Braveheart voice (yes, I have one of those) and shout LIAR!!!! Perhaps while wearing a kilt and face paint.

When you know people really well, you can tell when they're actually fine as opposed to when they only say they're fine. The second fine, the fake fine, is very short and curt. It's said in the same tone you use when you're at the DMV and have waited 10 hours to pay the government money. That fine is a lie for public consumption only. Inside, you know the person is squawking about like a baby bird that just broke its wing. It's not thinking fine thoughts. It's thinking that being a bird blows.

When I ask the people I love how they're doing and they use the second fine with me, I immediately want to run and buy an excessively large band aid that will patch up their internal bleeding. I say things like 'Are you sure?' and 'What's going on?' I write them very long letters telling them how much I love their smile, their slightly southern accent, and their fierce ability to parallel park. I want them to know, very honestly, that they are loved. And that if I could, I really, really, really would buy them a brand new, supercharged bird wing that could never break even under the most severe weather conditions. I desperately try and play doctor even though I'm not always sure where to stick a thermometer. I want to whip up more baked goods than Rachel Ray and fix all of life's broken wings with apple pies and creme brule.

But the truth is, all my hovering, all my kitchen fuss, all my true-but-sappy-to-the-core 'I love you's,' don't make people feel better. They make them feel claustrophobic. Broken birds don't want healthy birds flying about, hovering over their heads with their super flyable wings. Particularly if they are dressed as Mel Gibson. They want, it seems, to go through the long grueling process of physical therapy alone and fly up to meet you when they no longer think that being a bird blows. When they are, truly, fine.

And so for Lent I put my Braveheart away. I stash it alongside my cookie cutters and writing utensils. I will stop following broken baby birds around constantly trying to mend their unmendables, and I will hibernate until they are ready, once again, to fly happily beside me. And I will be totally fine with all of this.