Every once in awhile, I think it’s entirely okay to let yourself have a bad day. A really bad day, even.
Note: This is new. In NYC, whenever I woke up on the sunken side of the air mattress, I’d do whatever I could to snap myself out of it. Whatever it took, to avoid feeling that awful — that alone. It often took carbohydrates and chocolate. Sometimes it took the two, together.
It took sourdough studded with chocolate chips, when I discovered that. With a stained pint of seductively small strawberries and a mountain of whipped cream. Unnecessary note: this is how you take a bad day and make it better.
Sometimes it took a little more. Sometimes it took flowers. There were flowers in the park, and I’d go stare at them. And, okay: think about a surreptitious snip.
Looking at them would usually be enough. Enough to keep me from saying: well, I’m really going to wallow in it today.
And if not, there’d be cheese I could count on. Gouda, Cheddar, Bloomy, Blue — one of them would save the day. I’d feel sure of it.
I’m curious: how do you feel about bad days? What do yours look like?
Mine never seem to start out with a stubbed toe on the way to the bathroom. Mine seem to start out just like any other day, until I dedicate approximately 90% of the day’s allotted energy to overanalyzing something I have absolutely no control over.
Yesterday this happened early. I awoke mid-grumble, with a sore jaw and apparently something of a rationality shortage. Along with a rapidly dwindling desire to workout. I was tempted to take the single half-crunch up off my pillow (before the flop back down, obviously) and just call it a day.
Instead, I proceeded to have a stupidly small breakfast. And burst into tears, while looking for places to stay in Seattle and Portland. And return to the kitchen for more food (for too much breakfast, now). The grand finale was a face plant back onto the bed and over an hour spent in sullen silence.
I feel much better now. It was good to sulk. But for the first time, these signature skies have seemed sad. Really sad. For the first time, the Pacific Northwest hasn’t felt romantic or cozy or conducive.
I guess sometimes gray is just gloomy, and we forget to feel brave, and suddenly we’re looking at thin tomato soup.
We won’t need to worry too much about the soup. We won’t have diluted the basil pesto that much. But we do need to worry about what to do and where to live.
I’m beginning to think we might need to take it easy, on all the quotes about following our dreams. What do you think? What would you tell me? Tell me I’m wrong.