I’ve had cold symptoms since Wednesday, which makes me feel just as whiny as Alto. Alto, at least, has clear reasons for it. Her whining means she wants food, or her litter box cleaned, or she has just coughed up a hairball and would like someone—anyone—to notice.
My version of whining is quieter. I just want to be left alone to close my eyes or take a nap. So when Joe talks to me, every instinct says, please stop, I’m tired.
I don’t actually whine around Joe, though. I appreciate him, and he’s already plenty frustrated with the cat’s chosen form of communication. There’s also the fact that whining doesn’t change anything for me. When I’m sick, I turn into a less charming version of myself, and expressing it through whining doesn’t make me feel better. If anything, once I’m well again, I’d just be annoyed with myself for having gone there.
I think my complicated feelings about whining go way back. Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s, complaints were met with classics like, “Quit your whinin’,” or “Keep it up and I’ll give you something to whine about!” (Sometimes “whine” was replaced with “cry,” but the message was the same.) I learned early on that adults were not especially interested in hearing about discomfort or unfairness.
That lesson followed me into early adulthood. One day a boss accused me of whining when I thought I was expressing a legitimate concern. Apparently my nasally Ohio voice wasn’t helping my case (imagine that). I responded by reading up on how to lower your voice and practicing speaking in a lower register whenever he was around.
All of this has me wondering if some people were taught two things:
a) Anyone who raises a concern is a whiner.
b) It’s better not to speak up when something feels wrong, because being labeled a whiner means nothing will change anyway.
Which brings me to 47. In a speech this week in Pennsylvania, he told folks their daughters don’t need 37 dolls. “Two or three is nice. You don’t need 37, so we’re doing things right. We’re running this country right.” To me, that sounded a lot like, Quit your whining, aimed at people worried about affordability.
And honestly—do you know any parent who buys thirty-seven dolls or pencils? I suppose it could happen if you had thirty-seven children. I once bought my daughter twin dolls, which felt extravagant enough. All told, she never owned anywhere close to thirty-seven.
Anyway, back to whining. If you ever need to get something off your chest and just need an ear, I’m happy to listen. I promise I won’t say, “Quit your whining.”
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