The other night, boyfriend left the seat up. Annnnnd I fell
in. I managed to catch myself before the splash, but there was about a
centimeter of space between my hiney and some cold, recently licked by dogs,
water. And I thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.
Partially because it’s just SO cliché’ and partially because boyfriend really
likes to bust my balls ALL OF THE TIME, and this time, he got me without even
trying. As he would say, that’s funny to me.
So, I tell my girlfriend about it yesterday, and her
response was “OMG, were you so mad? I hate when “her husband’s name here”
leaves the seat up. If I ever fell in, I’d make him sleep on the couch.”
Wait. For real?
So, I ask another girlfriend. And a coworker. And both said
the same: “Oh yeah, I’d be so mad.” Something about it being so disrespectful.
Whatever, this blog is not about the age-old toilet seat debate, though my
personal opinion is, up, down, who cares? It’s just as easy for me to put it
down as it is for him to put it up every time. As for my late night
almost-swim? I should have been paying attention. I never understand half the
things girls get mad about. Friends come to me for life-coaching and I
typically think “Why are we talking about this? The answer is simple. You’re
being dumb.” That said, we can’t always escape the ovary and I’ve had my fair
share of times when I was simply being dumb.
So, in honor of the fact that I think women are insane, this
blog is about being difficult. It’s something I’ve been trying to work on A LOT
lately, so I have plenty to say on the matter. Though, if we’re being honest, I
have plenty to say on pretty much every matter, so I’ll just get on with it.
Hmm. So. In case you guys couldn’t tell from Facebook, I
really like the guy I’m dating. And when I figured that out, I swore to myself
up and down a thousand times, I’d finally get around to stopping all of those
things I do that have been the cause of contempt in past relationships. Because
for like, ONCE, I REALLY REALLY want to
stop being such a pain in the ass. (Oh, what, you thought I didn’t know that I have
PITA tendencies? Trust. I know.)
I believe it is in the nature of every woman to be
difficult. I mean, we ALL do it. And sometimes, I think the cause causing the
difficulty is a worthy adversary, but the whole nature of the response is just
TERRIBLE. I’ve cried, I’ve picked fights, I’ve pouted, I’ve yelled, I’ve put my
foot down, I’ve even broken up, JUST because I was being difficult. When
really, the matter at hand was completely arbitrary and immaterial.
The background on all of this is that I’m pretty used to
getting my own way. My parents will even confess it: I’ve been ruined. Ok, not
really. I’m not THAT terrible. But I’m an only child in pretty much every sense
of it and the idea that anything could ever happen that isn’t JUST how I want
it to be, still comes as a surprise. Every. Single. Time. It’s funny that you
think I’m exaggerating.
Anyways, I know I’m prone to this. And I know for a dude it
must be SO frustrating when you probably don’t even understand that you “did
something wrong” and this silly person that you’re just trying to love is
having a breakdown in logic right before your eyes.
So, I’ve been practicing. Things come up and I feel my
difficult instinct start to kick in, and I catch it. Or try to. Don’t get me
wrong, I’m “Under Construction” for the next, ohhh, forever. There have been a
couple of times where I’ve almost felt like I was having an out-of-body
experience, watching myself whine terrible words out loud but somehow unable to
stop. Like, movie slow-motion thinking, NOOOOOOOOOOO. But instead, yes. Yes I
did. Ugh, I want to cringe.
It makes me feel sheepish now. Which, is progress I guess,
because normally it makes me feel indignant. Difficulty comes with a sense of
entitlement. I would like to change the thought process around having the right
to be a pain in the ass. Say it with me now, I DO NOT HAVE A RIGHT TO BE A PAIN
IN THE ASS. This sort of thinking lumps me in with the rest of the chicks on
the planet who like to address small problems with big reactions. That shit ain’t
cute, y’all.
Recently, this thing happened. I don’t think this is the
place for details, but I’ll give it to you like this. I got upset about
something REALLY dumb. I guess in my sorta defense, I was a little (ALL OF THE)
drunk at the time, and I can’t tell if I would have been as upset had I been in
a sober state. Regardless, I got upset. I cried. IN PUBLIC. OMG, could I be any
more of a girl? Anyways. Before I proceeded with a course of action, I took a
couple of hours to think about it and realized I was TOTALLY over-reacting. (I
know, right? I actually thought that! All by myself!) So when it came time to
have a reaction, I was completely calm and (mostly) rational and a situation
that could have turned into a 7, stayed at a 2. And it felt SO GOOD. I picked
not difficult, AND IT WORKED.
It doesn’t always feel good to pick not difficult. The act
of not being difficult is HARD. Because let’s face it, we want to be difficult
because we think we’re right. And when you choose not to be difficult, you have
to loosen the grip on just how awesome your perceive yourself to be. You have
to admit that what you’re asking for (or, demanding, more likely) is not REALLY
important. Unless Galileo was wrong, the Earth revolves around the Sun, not
you. That’s a tough one for me to take. Some days, I forget that other people
even exist…Or at least, I wish they didn’t.
The point is, I’m really big on preaching about how happy is
a choice. I don’t buy into the idea that we’re a victim to our emotions
(seriously, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Quit. Crying.) Though I
know we can’t always help how we feel, we can help what we do about it. And
doing difficult, sucks. For us, for the person we’re storming around at, for our
friends who have to listen to how we TOTALLY freaked out. About a toilet seat. So
I’m going to try. Every Day. To choose Not Difficult. Then, by actually being
awesome, I’ll actually be awesome, and that, my friends, will be awesome.
