I’ve had to accept a lot of things in the last two years. A whole heckuvalot. Period. You’d think I’d be really good at it now, right?
Apparently not. And that makes me mad.
See, I’m one of those people who want to do things right the first time. The First. Not the second, third, or fifteenth time. Nope. That doesn’t cut it for me. Can you tell that I’m just a bit Type-A? And yeah, I was that annoying teacher-pleaser kid in elementary school. Didn’t have a choice there – I was bred that way. And that personality quirk has stuck with me in some pretty inconvenient ways. Screwing up? I’m an overachiever. Trust me to do that in style. And yep, I have. Royally. More than once. Enough so that I had to put on my big-girl panties, suck it up and accept the consequences.
Which led to a lot of introspection, therapy and just plain hard work at accepting life on life’s terms. Myself included. And I admit that’s still a really hard one. Accepting me. Just the way I am. Warts and all. Because, in my Type-A brain, I should be able to get rid of all the crappy baggage, right?
Let’s just say that I’m a work in progress.
So, like I said earlier, you’d think that all of this therapy, journaling, etc. would have made me more tolerant of the world in general, right?
Well, sometimes. I don’t go all postal on people who cut me off on the highway. If I did that every day, I’d have an aneurysm. I don’t go ballistic at the dirty singular socks I find in random places around my house full o’ boys. (Ok, I did go ballistic last week. Once. But that was after I had collected not one but SEVEN dirty singular socks from various places around the house. SEVEN.)
So what’s got my brain in a twist this morning? It hit me that, as much as I’ve prayed on, journaled about and talked out acceptance, I’m still a pretty judgmental person.
And frankly, I don’t have time for it.
I mean, really, who cares if the couple at the next table in the restaurant is wearing color-coordinated designer outfits? Who cares if the random woman tagged in a friend’s Instagram pic would be much prettier without those six pounds of plastic in her face? Who cares if that friend who recently moved has time to rave incessantly on social media about the marvelousness of their new neighborhood – but doesn’t have time to catch up with an old buddy? (OK, that one stings. Touché.) Who cares if the little two-year-old tot down the street has a birthday party that could rival a red carpet event?
I shouldn’t. I don’t. If you ask me, I don’t care. But I do – at least, I care enough to have an opinion. Why is that? I’m sure most people can see something and move on. Maybe even think, ‘Huh. That’s a new one.’
But I dwell on it. In one of two ways, usually. I either think about how I’d never do/say/look/act in that way, or I start questioning/comparing/downgrading my abilities, choices – you name it.
One thing I do know – I need to work on that one. There’s WAY too much on my plate right now to carry that many opinions – about things that really don’t matter – around in my head.
Ain’t nobody got time for that! Especially now that soccer has the minions practicing four nights a week, scouts is about to start up and those teachers are giving homework now.
Seriously. I need to step up the prayer, y’all.
What do you think? How do you manage that little voice in your head that insists on having opinions about stuff that just doesn’t matter? Mine needs a mute button.