Misanthrope's Corner.(stress and the American way)(Brief Article)(Column)

Another Sunday with the newspapers, another pile of stress articles. This is becoming such a regular experience that if This Is Your Life is ever revived and they decide to do me, they'll have to figure out some way to show it. I don't know how they could do it except to heave a file cabinet full of clippings through the rose-covered trellis while the band plays "Auld Lang Syne." The show's format demands a real live person, but it won't be long before every American newspaper has a separate Stress Section, so they'll be able to bring on a real live Stress Editor to hug me.

Stress as it is now defined got its start when feminists adopted the Nazi motto, Arbeit Macht Frei, and ordered wives and mothers to go out to work. I admit to a touch of schadenfreude here because this kind of stress plays no role in my life. I have never had a husband or a child and I no longer drive a car so I am immune to the Big Three, but my advantages are a double-edged sword. Living alone and working at home may sound unstressful, but they have spoiled me so much that the least little thing ticks me off.

My kind of stress dates from the Tylenol scare of 1982, when it was discovered that Americans, the friendliest people on earth, like to poison each other.

Drug companies prided themselves on how fast they "responded" to the problem, i.e., how fast they figured out how to seal everything up so nobody could get it open. The issues of crime and punishment got lost in the shuffle of the Great God Packaging, whose acolytes hit on the solution of frustrating poisoners and headache sufferers alike until they gave up, threw the bottle against the wall, and went out and shot somebody instead.

Now everything is wrapped and sealed to the hilt whether we put it in our mouths or not. Price tags on a loop of rubbery plastic strong enough to leash an Irish wolfhound, appliance boxes wound with steel- belted tape that yields only to wire cutters, and stubborn decal labels that leave a sticky residue that you can't get off no matter what.

I have to be careful about coping with packaging in public. Stress has become such a big-ticket item that one "g**d*** sonofabitch!" is all it takes for somebody to say, "She has a lot of anger." Profanity (though not obscenity) is now considered a "warning sign," the kind we are given lists of in stress articles, like "Ten Things to Look for in an Out-of-Control Loved One."

It would be undemocratic if some people had less stress than others, so America sees to it that no stoic is left behind. One way to achieve this goal is with the ubiquitous phrase "quality-care professionals." As soon as I hear it my stomach knots up because I know that some ungodly snafu is imminent and I will end up on the phone with someone named Pam or Debbi.