The Evil That is Stress

It's a fairly stress-free Sunday morning. I'm on my third cup of coffee so the energy level is optimum. My brother (who's visiting from Sydney) and the husband are enjoying a mutually-egotistical photo session fueled by the Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he sings as my rock stars, desperately trying to restrain their joyful giggles. Cool guys don't smile, let alone giggle. Each is really happy that he found someone to indulge his individual desire to capture the greatness on camera. I'm thrilled to have been spared the torture. "Yes, husband. You're so hot, husband."

I say stress-free but recently I realized that I have the worst kind of stress. It's the kind that hides from all the self-analysis, the kind that quietly lurks in the frustrations of every day life such as trying to make it somewhere on time or keeping a clean house or cooking a well-balanced meal for the kid. You look at me and you see a laid-back mom, a good wife, a supportive friend, a smart colleague. It's an illusion. I'm a stressed-out control-freak. The proof is in the hair.

For about seven years now I've suffered from alopecia areata, periodically losing my hair in quarter-sized patches. It takes a while but the hair always grows back though in completely white baby strands. The hair loss is possibly an autoimmune reaction, researchers say, and most likely hereditary. The same researchers claim there has been no proven link between stress and alopecia, yet I'm convinced my shedding sessions are closely related to life's little bumps and bruises. I'm having a particularly stubborn attack these days and if you asked me how I'm feeling, I would say "I'm feeling happy with absolutely no real stress in my life!"

(Does the fact that I was interrupted twelve times while writing this post constitute 'real stress'?)