I once heard a wise woman say something like this: Life is full of imperfect moments, challenges, little daily pickles that get in the way of us having a good time. Her response to this conundrum: give it up to God. Give everything up, release all the pissiness and crappiness that occurs in our daily lives. Release the really bad stuff that happens, too, obviously, but I think she was focusing more on the smaller stuff here. Give it all up, and this will create space for the more joyful moments to take center stage.
I pondered her words deeply. See, this was a question that I'd already been contemplating for a long time. I guess I've always pictured life as one big party, God's party, if you will. And God has invited us all, in a sense, to His (or Her) Big Shindig. (Go with me here, people) And all God probably wants us to do is enjoy ourselves at His Soiree: drink a little vino, hit up the open bar, nibble on the seafood, the fillet mignon, the mini wieners, and just have a good time.
I honestly think most of the time it's us humans who can't just relax and take the stick out of our asses and simply enjoy ourselves at the big clambake of life. And this makes The Baby Jesus cry. (OK, weird Catholic moment there, sorry folks.)
I can't tell you how many mornings I've begun my day surrounded in splendor: the sun shining through my window, my cat's adorably furry face waking me up, coffee already percolating in the kitchen, little birds chirping on the sidewalk as I walk to the train...then I am out of the door for no more than two minutes when an SUV runs a stop sign and almost hits me. And there I am, raging and muttering obscenities before it's even 7:30 am. Something isn't right with this picture. Nobody should utter the words douche bag before 8 am, it can't be good for your health.
And it's not like the dingbat in his SUV is going to have his morning ruined. On the contrary, he probably doesn't even realize he's pissed anyone off. So in the end, the only person I am really hurting by reacting to this situation is...myself. What to do? Kiss it upta Jesus.
But seriously, this is NY, if I kissed every irritating person up to The Lord I'd be making out with 99.99% of the damn city! In the strictly figurative sense, of course.
Every person alive is fighting some kind of battle. Where did I hear this quote? On Oprah? In Reader's Digest? I can't remember. But the words struck me. The idea itself is so logical: every seemingly rude person may simply have something larger going on, making it impossible for them to mind their manners. The thing is, it's so easy to forget this! It's almost as if I have to constantly remind myself every five seconds to be calm, to not react to every little slight, to be forgiving.
Maybe I should tie a ribbon around my finger to remind myself? Or perhaps someone will invent a gadget that gives out an electric shock every time I react to someone being an asshole? Because in reacting, I become the asshole and then I feel...bad. (And then The Baby Jesus cries.)
Or, what about when I'm the bothersome person? For some reason this always comes as a shock to me. My husband was the first to bring this to my attention. I was getting off the train and he was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. My cell phone was ringing and I was trying in vain to grab my cell out of my bag, look for my husband, zip my jacket and walk down the stairs all at the same time. When I finally reached him he said, "Sarah, you were walking so slow, you were being one of those people." Dun-dun-DUN!!! The music swelled.
Is't possible I could be one of those people? Surely not!
We all take a turn at being the offender, I suppose. This is obvious, or there wouldn't be so many aggravating people around. Hmmm.
It's always especially entertaining to witness someone else getting irate. Like when the people trying to get onto the subway are blocking the way for the people trying to get off of the subway and all of a sudden someone loses it and shouts, "Move! What is wrong with you people!?" And then I can just smile serenely and look at the crazy person and be glad that I didn't lose my temper in such a fashion.
Of course, nine times out of ten the nut who is yelling in public is me.
This can backfire, of course. My hard learned advice to you is this: before you reprimand an annoying person in public, be sure they are actually directing their disturbing behavior at you...(Can you tell a painful anecdote is coming?)
One day last summer I was wearing my taupe colored silk crinkle skirt. Before I left for work I had examined myself in the mirror, trying to step into the sunlight as I did so to be certain the skirt wasn't see-through. It wasn't. It wasn't, right? I woke up my hubby to ask him. It wasn't. Good thing, because I didn't have a slip anyway.
That was the week I bought my pedometer. I love that thing! It's the perfect invention for a hypochondriac with self-diagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder, like myself. (Counting the steps! Counting the steps!) I was averaging 10,000 steps a day, which they say is the goal. Who says this, you ask? They do!
Anyway, as I walked I started to notice I was getting very strange looks. Leers, lascivious glances and crude invitations were being tossed in my direction and it was with horror that I realized what was going on: My skirt must be see-through after all! Mortified, I ducked into a shady spot and called my sister from my cell phone.
Me: "I think my skirt is see through!"
Sissy: "Why?"
Me: "Because people are looking at me like I'm the whore of Park Avenue! I'm giving a smutty lunchtime show to all and sundry!"
At least I was wearing Granny underwear that day. (Who am I kidding, I always wear granny underwear.)
The worst part of it was, I had walked such an immense distance from work in order to get my step count up that now I was forced to walk all the way back. That day I invented a new kind of walk of shame: Walking while wearing a see-through skirt down the blindingly sunny streets of Manhattan.
That night, as I recalled the lewd comments and looks I had endured, I made a promise to myself. The next time someone said something filthy to me I was going to retaliate. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but somehow I was going to exact my revenge on mankind.
I didn't have to wait long. A few days later I went out for my lunchtime walk, sneakers on, my trusty pedometer firmly attached to my waist. I had a skirt on that day, too, but there was a built-in slip so there was no chance I would be x-rated that afternoon. This outfit had a G rating.
And there I was, steppin' along, when out of nowhere I heard, "Heeyyy Sexx-y!!"
That. Was. It. I turned to the men, who were loading boxes onto a truck, and immediately gave them the finger and screamed out "F@*# you!"
But here's the thing. You know how sometimes things happen so rapidly, too rapidly for your brain to keep up with your...mouth? If I could have replayed the awful scene in slow motion, here is what I would have seen, because after a quarter of a second, when my brain caught up with my mouth, this is what I realized:
After the men had called out "Hey sexy!" and I was turning and raising my finger, they noticed me and called out, "Oh, you too, you're sexy too..." in a shrugging, half-hearted kind of way. But by then it was too late, my finger was raised and the nasty words were already spewing out of my rotten mouth. It was too late. Too late for me to realize these men weren't actually speaking to me.
Yes, as much as it pains me to admit this, I was not the original sexy woman in question, the men were directing their comment to the sexy lady next to me. I mean, let's face it, I didn't even look remotely cute that day. I was wearing sneakers with a skirt and had a pedometer attached to my hip. As I walked away in disgrace they called out, "Well, you're not sexy now!"
Oh dear. I had jumped the gun and performed a premature simultaneous finger flip/F Bomb at men who weren't even talking to me! All I could do was let my feet carry me away on a cloud of shame as I walked as quickly as I possibly could. Oh shit! This was bad. I was failing at life. The Baby Jesus was definitely crying.
I wasn't even that far from work, what if someone had seen me? I can just picture the shock of one of my co-workers seeing mild mannered Sarah flipping the bird to men for seemingly no reason.
I turned a corner and immediately called my Sister but she wasn't there. Damn. I left her a message: "Sissy, I just gave the finger and told these men to eff off because I thought they had called me sexy but it turns out they weren't talking to me, they were talking to a sexy lady nearby."
I called my husband, but I decided to give him the edited version: "Babe, I flipped these men the bird and told them to F themselves for calling out 'hey sexy.' Is that... bad?"
Hubby: "Well, you shouldn't be yelling at strangers, I thought you were gonna stop doing that?"
OK, my broken spirit had been humiliated enough, I was waiting until later to tell him the other half of my story. As in, the men weren't actually calling me sexy...
By the time my sister called me back she was almost in tears and could barely speak with the laughter that was erupting out of her mouth. "You, you, you swore at people and they weren't even talking to you?"
These are the days when The Odd Broad really feels like a deficient human being.
Perhaps I had taken a stand for all womankind? Perhaps I was exacting revenge upon all of the chauvinistic, disrespectful men out there?
Perhaps I should have just... kissed it upta Jesus.
One of these days I'll get it. In the meantime, please don't push me, or accidentally wack me in the shin with your briefcase, or cut me in line at CVS, or utter the words "hey sexy!" anywhere in my vicinity. Because then I might be forced to kiss you up to Our Lord Jesus. And I may or may not have a breath mint in my mouth that day.
so I think this is a little too religious, but funny as hell!! :) The men in NYC can be pigs. You'd think they were trapped on a island, and you happen to be the first female they've seen in months, years even.
Posted by: Amy | February 19, 2007 at 04:39 PM