You Can’t Spell “Chagrin” Without “Grin”

Let me confess: I am mentally unequipped to adjust to the real possibility of joy. Before taking on my new life as publisher of this journal of hot jazz and levity, every dread that I cherished promised fulfillment in its due course. The other shoe (a muddy hobnail boot) must drop directly on my head. I developed a characteristic stance of bracing myself for the shock—which, when it occurred, was no shock at all. It was practically a relief. My expectation was always to be disappointed, to be embarrassed, and to fail in whatever I attempted. In that expectation, I was seldom disappointed. I am so accustomed to being embarrassed that it doesn't even register on the Chagrin Scale anymore. I eat mortification for breakfast! (The fiber content is incredibly high.) My philosophical embrace of the inevitability of the Worst Case Scenario began to pass for happiness in a dim light. You can't spell “chagrin” without “grin!” This reality held sway before The Syncopated Times was a gleam in my astigmatic eye. Would it be hubris if I now permit myself a broad smile? I suspect the banana peel is still there, and that my foot will find it before I plummet headlong into the abyss. I am so unused to the emotions that I experience today that I feel certain pain must ensue. But the other shoe is—gone. I am well aware that there is a world of hurt and anger layered in the strata fa