Are You a Lou or an Andy?

Little Britain is a television show that brilliantly both skewers and pays homage to cultural life in modern Great Britain. Lou Todd is a tireless caregiver to wheelchair-bound Andy Pipkin, but the narrator Tom Baker (Dr. Who, 1974 to 1981) refers to Lou as Andy’s “friend.” Lou pushes Andy, quite literally, to a range of activities that pleases Andy not at all--or so it seems. Andy’s blue eyes, obscured behind thick glasses, show no emotion. His mouth hangs open, and his blank expression is unchanging. On first glance, one would assume that the portrayal of this duo--indeed, the entire show--would be roundly denounced on social media as offensive to caregivers and the differently abled. The running joke, however, is not the mocking of either man’s innate characteristics. Andy is in reality as able-bodied as the selfless Lou, but this deception is apparent only to viewers.

Whilst Lou’s back is turned as he buys chocolate ice cream cones during a seaside outing, Andy leaps from his wheelchair, quickly removes all of his clothes, takes a quick dip in the frigid waters, and breathlessly returns to his usual spot just as Lou returns with the creams. Andy’s soaking wet, but Lou remains oblivious. Maybe Andy is malingering because he’s afraid that Lou would spurn him if he discovered his companionship was based not on actual need but mere loneliness?

Lou remains perpetually upbeat as he serves as Andy’s connection between his dimly lit council flat (UK public housing) awash in dull sepia tones and the brighter, bustling world. Comically, Andy inevitably changes his mind when it is too late to concede to Lou’s more suitable suggestion. At the video store, Lou warns him, “Oh, Andy, you won’t like Pride and Prejudice, you prefer Steven Seagal movies and monster truck rallies!” “Want that one!” Andy always insists on the choice he will reverse at the last minute, and it is Lou who must deal with the negative yet hilarious aftermath of Andy’s regrettable decisions.

Why do we love Andy and Lou? Maybe because we appreciate the frank humanity in these men who are neither physically attractive nor conventionally successful. In these two friends, I recognize the task of a caretaker of young children. I echo Lou’s relentless optimism with my two children ages 8 and 10. In their critical eyes, I am either the “world’s worst mother” or accused of being “always tired.” Like Lou, I organize activities that most humans would consider “fun”: interactive science museums, rollerblading, Christmas displays, trips to the bookstore, a visit to the grandparents. I do my best to talk each offering up as much as possible, in my best impersonation of Lou (minus the lisp, cockney accent, polyester tracksuits, and cheap trainers).

At the very least, parroting Lou’s unflagging optimism reassures me as I endure the verbal slings and arrows of two grouchy small but hyperverbal people who know exactly how to elicit an irritated response from their harried mother. If I succeed in convincing myself that 3 hours spent trudging around the Philadelphia Museum of Art will indeed be FUN, as my children deliver drop kicks to each other near wobbly 15th-century triptychs and loudly point out the preponderance of marble male appendages (“Look, a penis!”), then gosh darn it, it IS fun.

Like Andy, the kids are not easily fooled. Unlike Andy, though, they have more than a few stock catch phrases (“Yeah I know,” “Want that one!”, and “Don’t like it”). Instead, I endure extended, agonized protestations en route to said fun as layers of resistance are worn down by my stony silence. When they finally succumb to their detestable state of enjoyment, I must then pretend that my psyche has not been reduced to an ash pile. I’m not claiming that we never have fun as a family of three, but trying to have a good time exacts a toll on my mental well-being.

What if you lack the mental energy and motivation to even attempt the above? Although we are lucky if we have a supportive partner, we cannot rely on that person--a “Lou,” if you will--to lift us out of our malaise. It is an impossible responsibility to place upon a loved one, no matter how much he cares for you. We need to strive toward practicing self-reliant self-care, because ours is the voice that is ultimately the loudest. When I am profoundly sad, having someone else exhort me to “feel better” will not be as meaningful as when I independently process and take action myself--in spite of how unnatural it feels to do so. I am not discounting how difficult it is to force oneself to behave like a human when the idea of placing oneself in the presence of happy people induces fear and loathing. Actions are more effective than words in this case, and if your taking such action improves your mood even a little, you are creating evidence that contradicts the belief your changing moods do not necessarily reflect reality. What is depression if not a distortion of reality that we have convinced ourselves is accurate?

            Let’s learn to channel our inner Lou. If merely thinking about being around other people, friends and family members whose company you used to enjoy distresses you to the point that you are tempted to retreat to the dismal council flat that is your mind, surrounded by empty bags of crisps and Steven Seagal VHS tapes, you should consider saying “yes” to Lou when he invites you to the dog park to watch the French bulldogs frolic.