No, not that insipid song. That pesky thing that shouldn’t bother you because in the grand scheme of things it’s a non-event and isn’t worth the grey hair, candy consumption, or lack of sleep. But yet it still won’t stop making you feel like the world’s largest asshat.
Fact: We all make mistakes. Subjectively and objectively. Small and gargantuan. Anyone who thinks they’ve never made a mistake is either a raging narcissist or a hermit.
With some exceptions, when we make mistakes we generally take responsibility, possibly make amends, and move on. Not necessarily in that order. Sometimes mistakes pair with life-altering consequences. Sometimes they’re forgotten in a split second after they’re made. Every so often you make one that you just can’t put behind you even though everyone else picked up the shattered pieces of their lives and went out for Slurpees. You dwell and dwell and tell anyone who will listen about what a fuck-up you are in the hopes that they’ll say “oh, it doesn’t sound that bad. Let it go. Want a Slurpee?”
But here’s the rub…no matter what your captive, Red Dye #10 poisoned audience tells you, when these foot faults in life get under your skin for whatever reason – shame, embarrassment, fear of consequences – how do you just let it go?
Obviously I’m not pontificating on this subject because I have nothing better to do (although, let’s be honest…). Today was one of these days for me and I’m still a little wound up about it. The details are unimportant except to say that, while I may be a sarcastic twit most of the time, I do actually know my audience and have been known to maintain at least a baseline level of professionalism in the workplace. Sometimes though, in times of stress, I handle things as my father did before me – by being a total idiot for the sake of humor. And once in a blue moon every defense mechanism that has allowed me to function as a professional adult in my free time fails me and I so dramatically thrust my foot down my gullet that I spend the rest of the day nauseous having been told by my boss that my lack of common sense in the moment was something that should never happen again. Which is the adult-sized version of a parent saying “I’m not mad, I’m just very disappointed in you” (which I’m guessing caused at least half of you a traumatic flashback to one of those very moments).
Even though this all happened before 10 am, I left work still dwelling, wondering how to get rid of the knots that had been twisting and turning in my gut all day. First I thought maybe I should go to the gym and work off the negative energy, then I realized that only came to mind because of the guy yelling to someone named Jim on the side of the road and came to my senses. I thought about going to sit at my favorite neighborhood haunt, grab some dinner and “accidentally” have a few too many drinks, but figured a hangover would not make me any less anxious (and probably more likely to consume another limb tomorrow). So without a decent solution, I came home and decided my best course of action was obviously to tackle assembling the maid-in-China piece of crap outdoor sofa thingie I bought over 4th of July and never put together because there was something in bold letters about needing two consenting adults to do that and I didn’t think the voices in my head counted. I also decided that directions are for sissies and single-handed furniture assembly should always commence approximately 17 minutes before sundown.
Two hours later I proudly walked in the house, washed off the blood, and poured myself a pitcher glass of hard-earned wine. Who says “using your head” has to mean being smart about something? Sometimes it means literally using your head. To prop up pieces of a couch. Because you don’t have 4 arms or the ability to levitate objects with your mind (yet). Clearly the only reason you need 2 people for this sort of thing is because it makes it 50% more likely one of you will read the directions and not put the front piece on upside down, necessitating pulling the whole damn thing apart just when you’re starting to feel a little smug and accomplished. Then I sat down to write. Because the one thing I thought of while attempting not to somehow trap myself inside the couch was that if I was still feeling this worked up about something I logically know is not the end-all-be-all but emotionally can’t process as anything other than a career ending debacle, I’m probably not the only one out there who has felt this way from time to time. So maybe in the process of writing it all down I can let it go. And maybe in the process of reading this ridiculous story it I can help you let whatever idiotic mess you think you got yourself into go too. I can tell you with a substantial degree of certainty that it won’t seem nearly so dramatic after losing yourself in some arts and crafts and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is another day – make it your bitch (in a good way, not a “help I’m stuck in a fortune cookie factory” kind of way).
Just for good measure, here’s a picture of the stupid couch (on which I will spend many an afternoon searching for a new job when and if my unfiltered brain/mouth connection relieves me of gainful employment):
Some assembly required. By “some” they mean “don’t have to weave the faux wicker yourself”.
2 Comments
Never shop at IKEA! Also, the furniture might be more comfortable with the plastic wrap off. Then again, it does help protect against wine spillage which would only lead to having to assemble another couch and drink more wine. Ah, the vicious circle.
It’s not even from IKEA! It would have been far easier to assemble if that were the case! I told you, I didn’t read the instructions. I knew I missed a step. Damn it.