It’s been one of those past two years months where it feels like slogging through molasses in lead boots carrying a bowling ball while nursing would be easier than securing a job I’m truly gifted at…
Marketing a book…
Caring for children….
And helping a spouse start a business…
Then again, after writing that last bit, the first part seems easier.
Which leads me to the real point: how about I just stop?
I don’t mean stop taking steps toward my goals. But how about I stop trying to manage and control everything? In the end, it’s truly not the result that matters, but the path to the process. I mean, what’s the point of getting that awesome gig or landing a T.E.D. talk if, at the end of the day, I’ve been a joyless, nagging, cranky, petulant and often worry filled hot mess? (Not that I’m ever one of those adjectives. Sheesh!)
It seems to me, crazy as this might sound, that taking life on life’s terms is the way to go.
Less judgement, not just of others, but of me.
Less working.
More playing.
Less fretting.
More laughing.
Less me.
More God.
I once heard that “expectations” can be translated as “unborn resentments.” I was thinking about that while in line at Trader Joe’s. I had not expected to be, at 46, thinking about whether it’s truly a good plan to spend $24 instead of $20 on a bag full of mini tacos, cole slaw, gluten free bread and some cereal. I was supposed to be a working TV writer, don’t you know! (Or at least have a career writing jingles or Shel Silverstein poem books!)
But there I was with my re-usable shopping bag. On a budget, but determined to have joy anyway. Because, well, joy does not conform to budget. Joy looks at budget and says, “Ha, ha ha! I fart on you, silly money constraints! I will enjoy my day, go back for a second cup of sample coffee, and enjoy a gluten-filled gnocci taster since my sweet ticker is not here to watch me delight in the twitch inducing pasta morsels!”
I will chat with the cashier.
I will ask about her day.
And then I will explain to her that my shark backpack is not a shark after all but an Orca.
Named Bruce.
And when she laughs and says, “That’s awesome!” I will laugh, too. Because, in the end, if I really had to choose between a crud load of cash and a true connection with another human being in the grocery store line, I’d choose the second option every time.
Even if my purse threatens to swallow her whole. (Bruce… he’s a cheeky accessory to say the least.)
Until next time, may:
God grant you the serenity to accept the tics you cannot change, the courage to change the tics you can, and have the wisdom to know the difference.
Love,
Andrea
PS: I highly recommend getting a mammal shaped pocketbook. It can transform your day. Add in some Victoria floral designed fayx Doc Martins and a “I Love My Crazy Friends” tee shirt and your whole week will improve just by getting dressed!
Happily Ticked Off 