Pace Yourself

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Pace Yourself

Since November 9th, I’ve woken up most mornings animated by rage. I hide it pretty well, what with the family being around, and the Nutcracker, and the Lord Huron concert, but seriously. I wake up nearly every day feeling like I want to punch something. I did a little research on brain chemistry and what happens when you’re mad, and it appears that the Nonepinephrine Warehouse in my brain has been flashing a “Going Out of Business! Everything Must GO!” sign since early December.

I know I’m not alone. And you and I both know this isn’t sustainable.

I’m not saying we’re not justified. Every day brings a new insult, whether it’s a group of white men signing anti-abortion legislation when they’d be hard pressed to pick a speculum out of a lineup, or a press secretary trying to pull the “These are not the droids you seek” routine on us, or an Indiana state senator circulating a meme on Facebook about the Women’s March that pulled off the tricky trifecta of weight shaming women, disparaging Michelle Obama, AND – by yanking it off his page and saying he didn’t know how it got there – gaslighting anyone who has ever posted anything to their own Facebook wall. AGH. I am so angry again.

But I also need to survive until I watch that man leave office. Which means stress management. I can’t be mad about all the normal things I used to be mad about, and still whip myself into a fury around “alternative facts.” That is an actual fact.

I am therefore cleaning out the virtual vault of the following things that used to piss me off, in the olden days of pre-2017. Therefore, from this moment forward, I pledge not rise to the bait when confronted with the following.

People who say “comprised of” instead of “comprises” or “composed of”
Cereal boxes with half of one flake left inside, sitting in the pantry. Ditto to juice/milk with ½ teaspoon of fluid left in the ‘fridge
My neighbors who still have their Halloween decorations up. From Halloween 2015.
Short girls who try to nustle up under ribcage during a concert, and then lean backwards and wave their arms in my face as they dance
Last night’s dinner dishes co mingling with this morning’s breakfast dishes in the sink, and everyone who avoids eye contact with that situation
The ladies in my exercise class who can’t stick the beat
A certain young male writer in San Francisco who titles his female characters “She”
People who post “97% of people won’t post that they think cancer is bad. Please cut and paste this into your status bar if you are the 3%.” Making you look like a cancer-loving jackweed if you don’t do it
Waiters who say, “What are we having for dessert?”
The band Train
People who make the left turn on the intersection closest to my house, swing wide, and veer into the lane where I’m waiting to make a right turn. You probably can’t visualize this, and you don’t really need to. Just know I’ll stop yelling, “NOT IN MY HOUSE YOU DON’T!” when they do that.

All those situations: I’m pacing myself. Go for it. I’ll be deep breathing and om-ing and centering myself, the better to dial my senator and demand that a woman who has never had to take a student loan or attended a public school isn’t put in charge of the nation’s educational system.

Whoops. There goes my insistence on the Oxford comma.