I am mostly – fairly content. I attribute this truth primarily to the fact that I don’t have toddlers or a “real job.” But every now and then I find myself enmeshed in what most of you call “normal life” and between the stress (over deadlines), disappointment (about things not going my way), anxiety (about everything) and lack of time (to sleep and/or eat – but mostly eat) I find that my blood pressure rises, the hairs on my arms stand on end, and my pupils dilate. In other words, I get pissed off. Ok, I sometimes get pissed off even without the stress, anxiety and hunger.
The thing is about the times I get pissed off, whenever they may be, is that I also have this irritating little voice on my shoulder telling me that I don’t deserve it. Getting pissed off is for people trying to live peacefully in war-torn countries. It’s for people who have worked hard their whole lives but then end up unable to pay for cancer treatments because they got fired when they missed too much work for having cancer. It’s for Suri Cruise who so didn’t ask for that parental unit.
But me? First World problems all around. Take Monday: Walgreens called Aaron to let him know that we had forgotten to pick up some pictures we’d had developed in March. We couldn’t remember what they were. So yesterday he went into Walgreens to get them only to be informed that they had been, along with their negatives, shredded. I flipped. I was so mad I was plotting conversation points that included things like, “You must be so pleased that in your worthless life you’ve been given the opportunity to shred other people’s meaningful ones!”
I decided this morning that I’m not going to go in and say that, or any other line to anyone. Because, unlike me, that person hasa real job and potentially toddlers. This isn’t to say I’m not allowed to get pissed off. I mean, it’s all relative, right? But who do you blame when the world gets so big you start to wonder which person at Walgreen’s is responsible for my shredded negatives? And what’s my own culpability? I mean, they told me I had 24 hours to come in and get them. So someone got a little handsy and threw my photos in the shredder a few hours early. I was, after all, the one who forgot them in the first place, am still not really sure what they’re of, and definitely didn’t miss them yesterday…
When I was in college my father was dying of an unthinkable illness. So “unthinkable” in fact, it had never even been “thought.” It remains to this day unnamed, although we are getting closer to understanding its origin. But, I mean, come on! Who gets an unnamed illness besides like one person once on one single episode of House? No one. No one gets that. I remember being 21 and going out for drinks with college friends who were lamenting bad dating experiences, feeling frustrated by horrible classes, hating the cafeteria food, when all of the sudden they’d get quiet, look at me and say, “I know this is nothing compared to what you’re going through.”
It was absolutely true. No two ways about the fact that the cafeteria’s lack of mayonnaise was, as richter scales go, maybe rumbling a 0.3. But that’s the thing about life. Getting pissed off is bad for the blood pressure. It’s not so good for the digestion. But it is, as an animal, unable to distinguish between a Walgreen’s fuckup and genetic mutation. It doesn’t let you decide what will break your heart or what should make you fall down laughing.
I am over the pictures (But seriously Walgreen’s. I’ll see you in hell!) but I’m gonna let it slide that I cried for about two and a half minutes last night over them. I have a book deadline in a week and a half, company coming on Tuesday and am showing early signs of heat stroke. Maybe I needed a cry. It happens.