The joy and courtesy of sulking

On the way home from a speaking engagement, my sister, Louise, called me on my cell phone.

“Whadda you doin’?” she asked as usual then quickly cut to the purpose of the call.

“Can you take Mama to the funeral home tonight?” she asked before explaining that the husband of a family friend had passed away.

Dadgum it. My heart sank. I had big plans for the evening. I was going home to sulk. After a battering day, I had promised myself the treat of locking myself away from the world and taking the entire evening to appropriately sulk.

Sulking is a woman’s prerogative. It’s very important to us that we get to indulge ourselves and do this ever once in a while. A couple of times a year, I allow myself an evening of uninterrupted sulking. Then, the next morning I awake, all the combative darkness has been freed from soul and I bounce back as good as new.

I really needed to be home sulking, not going to the funeral home but I knew that Louise would never accept that as an excuse so I sighed resignedly and mumbled half-heartedly, “Okay.”

My dear friend Tim Richmond, a NASCAR superstar before his untimely death, used to badger me about my “pouting.” Normally, this came after our routine bickering. I loved Tim but anyone who knew him will tell you that it was mentally exhausting and emotionally depleting to be his friend. He was spoiled rotten and life was always all about him.

If I were unusually quiet, he would say, “Uh-oh. You’re not pouting again, are you?”

“I’m not pouting, I’m moping. There’s a difference.”

“Really?” He’d cocked his head to one side and look at me suspiciously.

“Pouting is when you’re quiet because you’re mad. Moping is when you’re quiet because you’re sad. You make me sad a lot so I mope.”

I have grown up now and matured from moping to sulking. It’s very important, though, that sulking be done in the privacy of one’s own home, away from everyone. The major rule of this female indulgence is that no one else should be exposed to it. That would be rude. And beholding to proper Southern womanhood, it is expected courtesy to stay away from people when you’re not feeling bright and happy.

At the funeral home, Mama loitered at length, chatting happily away.

I tugged discretely at her sleeve. “Mama,” I whispered. “Let’s go home. I need to sulk.”

She ignored me and sat down on the sofa for a long talk. Finally, I nudged her out the door and into the car.

“Let’s stop and have dinner,” Mama suggested. “I’ll buy.”

Mama offering to buy is so rare that I would never turn it down. Not even to sulk.

“Okay. But we have to make it quick. I’ve got to get home to sulk.”

As soon as Mama laid her fork down, I grabbed up my purse and said, “Okay, let’s go. We’re wasting my sulking time.”

When she got out of the car at her house, she looked back. “Hope you have a good sulk.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I will.”

And I did. Nothing beats a good sulk. I’m so glad that it’s a prerogative of womanhood.