Waiter, There’s A Fly In My Soup
On those days when you’re finding fault with EVERYTHING – the sky isn’t the right Tiffany Box shade of blue and the air conditioning is blowing too cold; how do you get yourself out of it?
Do you, at some point realize your ridiculousness and slap yourself across the face to snap out of it?
Or do you marinate in the fact that you’re so contrary that if George Clooney sat down beside you, you’d tell him he needed a haircut and an Altoid?
I know you know when you’re being an ass – because I know it when I am.
We wake up every day and there are two sides of the bed on which to get up.
The sunny side or the dark side; the right side or the wrong side.
The question I’m asking is this: if, by some cruel twist of circumstances and hormones, you put your feet on the floor when you wake up in the land of EVERYTHING’S WRONG, do you indulge and make those around you miserable, or do you do your damnedest to climb out?
I’ve done both. I DO both. Guilty as a charged in the court of Nit Pick.
These dark days do not come natural to me, but when I’m under their spell – watch out – and know that I DO know what an asshat I’m being, I just can’t help myself right. this. minute.
The kitchen looks the same as it did two days ago when I was feeling so grateful.
The bright summer sunshine lighting up the couple of places that have chipped white paint make it look charming and cozy. Our coffee maker broke, we replaced it, no harm no foul ( thank you Amazon). The wine stains on the wood countertops were just faded purple reminders of a really fun party last summer.
Today, (wrong side of the bed day) I’m seriously entertaining throwing a grenade behind me and shutting the door, giving us the opportunity for a fresh start.
You’re welcome Honey, what can I say, I’m a giver.
Don’t tell me I’m acting like an ass when I am, because that’s like taking a hose of lighter fluid and spraying it on a fire.
I KNOW I AM. IM WORKING IT OUT.
But I will deny it….with my dying breath I will tell you I’m “fine.”
I’m sorry if your feelings and our kitchen have become collateral damage. If you want to survive this:
Don’t make eye contact and DON’T try to hug me. I have a fork in my hand.
The best strategy in the past has been to isolate myself for awhile. Take a lovely walk outside in nature (I can’t today, with the heat index and the humidity, it feels like Thailand.)
Meditation is a good way to snap back into a loving place along with exercise. Neither of those have worked, so I’m still marinating.
Hormones, I’m blaming hormones.
I remember feeling this out of sorts during puberty, but the Good Lord had the common sense to deal me that hand when I wasn’t old enough to marry, operate heavy machinery or carry a firearm.
Whatever shall I do now?
The trick for me is listening to my own words as they spill uncensored from my lips.
If they make even me cringe, I need to make a correction.
I need to shut up and realize I’m acting like an ass.
Is that what you do?
Just listen to yourself. Step up and out of your body as you berate the waiter or the lady at Ralph’s or your husband.
If every other word is a critique or fuck, chances are you’re having THAT kind of day.
Sometimes, what I hear ME say is so vile, it makes me laugh, which then breaks the spell.
If that doesn’t work?
Do everyone, including yourself a favor.
Be quiet, go to bed early, and before you go to sleep, say a little prayer for a better disposition tomorrow.
Love you anyway,