Get a Grip

by - 4:28 PM

I'm having one of those days. The kind where I pretend that my life is so stressful and hard. It's the kind where I pout and complain a lot and imagine that I might just go to the gas station, buy fifteen Almond Joys, eat them all and then lick my fingers clean. Because, you know, I deserve it.

It's the kind of day that I purposely ignore that the sun is shining and that I woke up breathing and that when I rolled over this morning, my best friend was lying next to me, and he was breathing too. It's the kind of day when I blatantly ignore my blessings and instead count annoyances -- however mundane and silly.

On one hand, I wholeheartedly believe that there is merit in recognizing the bad things. They make the sparkling things shine that much harder, but unless I have something legitimate to complain about --like, say, cancer or hunger -- then I also believe in snappin' out of it. Fast.

Because....get a grip.
Sometimes I have actual pep talks with myself. Usually in my car. They go a little like this -- okay, boo-hoo. Your hair doesn't look like Giselle's. What a bummer. You have a job though. Isn't that cool?
And, I get it, it sucks that Ryan won't let you paint the the living room white. He doesn't care about light bouncing off the walls the way that you do. Two weeks ago, when it monsooned in Michigan for, like, a month straight, did you have to sleep outside? No?! Okay then. No more complaints.

And so maybe it sounds crazy, but I encourage pep talking yourself. Sometimes you have to lay down the law. Sometime times you have to get objective. So, okay, I don't have Victoria Secret hair. Never will. Move on. I've got other things and if push comes to shove, I've got a gas station and Almond Joys.

Here's to appreciating every day:

Like brand new Ralph Laurens. At Goodwill. For $7.
Save it, Giselle. A deal this smokin' is better than your hair. Even if it does swish perfectly.

Or how about a sky the color of cotton candy? Do white walls trump that?
I'm going to go with no.

Then there's this. A man who cooks.
Dear Sweet Baby Jesus, you've blessed me beyond measure. He cooks.
And he's hot.
I'll never ask for anything else again.

Slightly less cool than a good looking guy who cooks and kind of, like, really seems to love me

I think I'm a nail artist. Whatevs, these are cool.

You get the pep talk now, right?
Lady, there are people who have real things to complain about. White walls doesn't count. Neither does a busy work load. Or a bad day. Or some anonymous person that you don't even know, yelling at you. None of that matters. Seriously, get a grip on yourself.

Yeah, the bad stuff makes the good stuff shine brighter, but  it's embarrassing how willingly I hand over my sanity and an incredible amount of power to crab apple people. I let them make me stressed. I let them give me anxiety. I let them make me feel bad about myself.
Time to take back the reins. Boo-hoo, if I'm not hungry or dying or homeless, I'm doing pretty well. That eliminates a lot of the legit complaints.
Move on.
Get a grip.

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