Thursday, 31 January 2013

I Come Bearing Gift....

Hello, Blogspot.

I have something for you. But first, I want to talk about me. Me, me, me! Bear with.

I am one of life's impossible stress-heads. Though I'm prone to bouts of childlike regression and silliness, I take pretty much everything I do WAY too seriously. Life-or-death seriously. I give too many fucks in most given situations, which has a super-fun side effect of sucking the joy out of everything I do.

I've been battling with my innate lazy creature all month, trying to get it to go to the gym, trying to get it to strive toward forging some sort of career in writing (anything, lord, help meeee!!). Trying to just make it try. I feel under immense pressure (by myself, of course. No one else would be mean enough to constantly berate me like this) to be better at everything I do.

My relationship with the gym is probably the easiest example to demonstrate this. I am not a natural fan of exercise. Once, at primary school, I even "accidentally" poked myself in the eye to get out of playing netball (I don't know either, but somehow it worked!). So, since I realised a couple of years back that I didn't want to be immobile and wheezy by my middle age, I decided I'd better keep up some kind of routine. Ever since, it's been a continual cycle of;

*lolloping around neighbourhood in trainers*

"Yeah!! I didn't die that time!! Soon, I'll be running like Flash if I keep running lots! Nothing can stop me this time!! I won't be anywhere near as bad as last time I took this up. I actually like it now! Hahahahaha!!

Ow. Stitch."

"Wow, I'm still REALLY fucking slow. Why aren't I good yet? How is that pensioner overtaking me??"

"I know, I just need a little break, take the pressure off. If I stop making such a big deal of this, I'll remember how to run for enjoyment...yeah...just a few days..."

"I'm such a fucking fatty! Why can't I stop eating?! I could go to the gym, but the idea just makes me want to eat more cake and cry...I'll go tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow."

*picks some old cheese flakes out of clothing and eats*


"Hey remember I used to run a lot? That was fun. Might take it up again..."

See? I'm a fairly regular exerciser, but my bursts of activity come in an infinite loop of hope, optimism, disappointment, attempted self-bullshitting and then crushing self loathing. Not a fun trail to jog, skip then crawl, bleeding and weeping down. I've tried trying really hard(ish). I've tried not caring. And neither method has worked.

So, Blogspot. You've been patient so far, so I'll give you your present now. It's our new new life motto.

.....Half arsed is better than not arsed

(replace arse with ass if American).

Write it on your arms and face, tattoo it on your body, put it on post-it notes and stick them on your mum. This, my friends, is what a genius sounds like! We live in a world whose positive, sugary "you-can-do-it-follow-your-dreams" sentiments work for some, but not all. The idea of everyone always being their best person and trying REALLY hard and doing REALLY well at everything just terrifies me. If I fail at anything I give even the tiniest of shits about, I beat myself into such a pulp over it I'm that barely recognisable for a few days. Too much free time overwhelms me because I think I should constantly being doing something, anything, that will make me a better person at any given moment (i.e not a lazy, cake dribbling sloven). For this reason, I don't know how to relax. I'm incapable. And, to top it off, society tells me I have to be happy and fulfilled, or my life is worth nothing. After all, we could die tomorrow.

What is this horse shit?? Gunning after happier, better, fitter, wiser, prettier, richer, more sociable, more successful all at once just freezes me like a rabbit in the headlights. I care so much about having it all at once that I can't physically move. And I'm fairly confident that there are droves of equally stuck people out there too.

To you, my fellow rabbits, I say be happy being the sometimes-conversationalist who, instead of being the life and soul, interjects with the odd funny comment when they can. If you don't feel like you're making progress on the treadmills, just ponce about on the bikes for a bit. If you aren't a gourmet chef yet, eat a packet of cous cous with lumps of cheese for dinner. Hell, at least you had to boil the kettle to do it! Boiling is cooking, right?

What I'm saying is, don't berate yourself when sometimes you just want to do the bare minimum. Let yourself. I'm not saying don't give a shit. Just do enough to unstick yourself a little. Who knows, you might even end up actually excelling in and enjoying doing those things you avoided doing because they just seemed to immense when the pressure was on. And if you don't? Who gives a fuck? I'm not going to tell you off. I doubt your friends and loved ones will. You can't fail at life, because the only one making you feel so crappy about not hitting every single target is you, stupid.

Half-arsed is better than not arsed.


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