My mom works at a public school and a couple of weeks ago, she forwarded to me and my brother a general notice that had gone out to all students, families and staff members about the risks and prevention of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. MRSA is a mutated variation of a very common and usually harmless bacteria that has become resistant to antibiotics and can cause fatal infections. My first instinct was to roll my eyes. My second instinct was pure pride because my mom is a totally awesome guidance counselor.
My third instinct was to diagnose myself with a potentially life-threatening bacterial infection.
I’m not a hypochondriac by nature. Only if I’m really not feeling well and worrying about it do I become susceptible to the power of suggestion that leads some people to believe they’re suffering from medieval ailments or Kennel Cough or something. But for some reason, I spent the better part of the day absolutely convinced that I had MRSA.
I had a blemish on my shoulder that was sort of red and sore, but not at all abnormal. I cleaned and covered the spot and in the morning, it looked much better. I took that as a sign that an incurable infection was diving from the surface of my skin and soaking into my blood stream. I freaked myself out so much that my face and neck started to flush, the first sign of a fever that would have me hospitalized for sure.
Plucking at the last thread of logic in my fraying mind, I took an extra multi-vitamin and applied another band-aid. At the gym that evening, I wiped down the machines before and after I worked out. By the time I got out of the shower, my skin was clear, my imaginary fever had broken, and I declared myself cured.
The whole thing reminded me of a project I did for my Graphic Design class when I was a junior in high school. We had to design album art for a fictional band or a compilation CD. I put together an “Angsty Girl” mix and based my design on images of stained cells under a microscope lens. In my mind, “angsty” female artists broke down in their music, exposed their wounds and flaws and mutations, became small and then magnified themselves.
I borrowed cell slides from my biology teacher and scanned them into the computer. The dye colors were electric and appealing. I had glassy lavender human cheek cells, fresh green plant cells with vacuole polka dots, bacteria outlined with dramatic red membranes.
Nobody understood my project at all. My teacher asked, “is angsty a word?” I had really hoped that my metaphor would impress this one guy in my class. His talent made me envious, inspired, and a little turned on. Despite the fact he must have thought me a complete flake, he was so patient. He just kept asking me to explain it again—”okay, so why the cells?”
Oh, whatever. No one even buys CDs anymore.
What’s so amusing about looking at these now is the playlist. My “Angsty Girls” included Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco Alanis Morrisette, Sarah McLachlan, Jewel (all arguably appropriate, but so totally cliche); Edie Brickell, Patty Griffin, and Marry Me Jane (surely selected because I didn’t think my peers would have heard of them).
And the “angst” I tried to express—if the guy whose respect I’d wanted to earn had patted my head and said, “Oh, how adorable,” I would have deserved it. I know my favorite lyric in Silent All These Years was “what’s so amazing about really deep thoughts?” even though in the very next line, Tori Amos is practically threatening not to get her period so the guy with the jeans will know that she’s pregnant. That’s like the difference between “oh, I’m so angsty with my emotions and my deep thoughts” and “your deep thoughts are nothing compared to my DEEP THOUGHTS.”
Even though Jewel might be the least angsty of these angsty girls, I used two of her songs: Barcelona and Absence of Fear. I was still playing this CD in college, listening to Barcelona on long drives: “Won’t somebody please, hold me, release me, show me the meaning of mercy, let me loose”; and Absence of Fear when it rained or if I couldn’t sleep: “There is this hunger, this restlessness inside of me.”
So maybe angsty isn’t a real word, but the sentiment has endured. The same lyrics still stand out when I play these same songs. And I still think my cellular metaphor is fitting.
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