Books |
Sloth,
Wendy Wasserstein
By
Published: Jan 01, 2008
Category:
Self Help
Sloth
Wendy Wasserstein
When New York playwright and author Wendy Wasserstein died in 2006, the lights on Broadway were dimmed to honor her. Many wept for her; she was 55 and had a young daughter. And they mourned their own loss, for a voice they loved was gone, and there would be no more plays like “The Sisters Rosensweig” and “Isn’t It Romantic”, no more Tony Awards for Best Play and Pulitzer Prizes for Drama.
Wendy was funny, and she was applauded for being funny, yet she was deadly serious about the trials and tribulations of contemporary independent women. Confrontational without being strident — that’s a neat trick.
Several years ago, when The New York Public Library and Oxford University Press commissioned a series of short books by cultural icons on the vagaries of temptation, Wendy Wasserstein was on their list.
Michael Eric Dyson wrote about pride, Joseph Epstein envy, Robert Thurman anger, Phyllis Tickle greed, Francine Prose gluttony, Simon Blackburn lust — and Wendy Wasserstein, in a hilarious parody of the self-help genre, wrote about sloth.
I read the book. Wendy and I practically knew each other — we both were New Yorkers who went to City College, Mt. Holyoke and Yale together. So I decided to give her my opinion (even though it may be a note into the void) and to share it with you.
Dear Wendy:
My life was coming apart at the seams when you came to the rescue.
I was rushing to the subway to get to work in time to catch a taxi to a 10:00 Congressional hearing.
On the way, I stopped at the post office to mail checks for overdue bills, the tailor to drop off my son’s pea jacket to get the buttons moved, the cleaners to leave my husband’s crumpled shirts, and all the while, I grasped my mobile listening to my sister in Vermont fret about her goats.
I intended to slip the overdue library books into the outside return box but since the library was already open, the metal box was locked and I had to go inside to lay the books on the return desk and walk around the reception area, bumping into the new book cart, in order to reach the exit.
That’s when I saw your book. The sky-blue cover. The black ink drawing of the man with a beatific smile in a hammock.
“Sloth.” One of the seven deadly sins.
What I wouldn’t have done that moment to close my eyes and sway gently in the wind in that hammock.
And so, as they say, dear Wendy, the rest is history.
Following your excellent instructions, I have eased myself into a life of sloth: willingly, happily, and without regret.
From my hammock — which I ordered from L.L. Bean and strung across the living room — to you — in your coffin deep in the ground — I relay my story for your pleasure and gratification.
I’m not even really writing, as I know how much you’d abhor the effort it would take to hold pen in hand, never mind finding a piece of stationery — arms dangling, my soul inert, I am thinking this letter to you.
I set my pillow and feather-light quilt on the hammock, put on lilac silk pajamas and set up the coffee table with my favorite foods and reading materials, just like you said, at arm’s length.
I was a little worried about the eating part of your guidelines. I didn’t believe cravings would stop.
Triple cream Oreos don’t appeal to me so I bought six boxes of chocolate covered donuts and immediately ate one box-full of eight. That was a heavenly investment and took care of eating that day.
The next morning I ate another box and then, startlingly, developed a chocolate donut antibody. I stretched my arm to the donut boxes and shoved them off the coffee table, onto the floor, out of sight.
Whew, one problem solved.
And, those entanglements of life — personal, professional, physical — that you said to get rid of…well, I just said good-bye.
On the personal front, everything worked like a charm.
My husband was on an extended business trip to another country I never heard of.
My son, who had already moved out, quickly stopped coming by because the refrigerator was always empty.
The only other living thing in my house was the 30-year-old Christmas cactus. But I lugged it outside and it being freezing cold and all, the thing withered pretty quickly.
In my professional realm, I cancelled all lunch and dinner dates as per your suggestion.
I turned down freelance assignments with deadlines because I took your word that I couldn’t possibly meet them.
I stopped looking at job ads, overcome with energy deprivation just thinking of composing a cover letter and editing my resume for the four-hundred-thousandth time.
Physically, the best thing about this sloth way of life, was tossing my electronic gym key. I really like Gold’s but the nagging guilt of not going often enough, not staying long enough, not sweating enough, was overwhelming.
Wendy, I love you for empowering me to say, “I’ve got nothing to prove and nowhere to go.” I am energized to do nothing. I am at peace. You too, I hope. Thank you for your book.
Yours, with affection,
Audrey Emalie Siegel Hoffer
Guest Butler Audrey Hoffer is a freelance writer and editorial assistant in the Washington bureau of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.
To buy “Sloth” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “The Heidi Chronicles: Uncommon Women and Others, and Isn’t It Romantic” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Shiksa Goddess: (Or, How I Spent My Forties)” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Greed” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Pride” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Lust” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Envy” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Anger” from Amazon.com, click here.
To buy “Gluttony” from Amazon.com, click here.
