>So far, 2011 has been the Year of the Restrictive Rabbit. I gave up drinking (nearly) entirely and with a few devil-may-care weekends, I’ve been following a very strict diet six days a week. I’m even forcing myself to exercise, which goes against the very core of my lazy being.
And now it looks like I will have to add spending to my list of things I have to get under control, which means restricting what I can buy. I made that decision this month, when my pay somehow ran out by the seventh.
The seventh. I didn’t even make it to the mid-point of the month. Sad.
More restrictions. I can feel my inner six-year-old starting to rebel. Something has to give. I’m bad at self-parenting – I’m too cute to tell me ‘no’ for very long. I sense an imminent bad-behaviour explosion unless I let something go.
So I’ve voted to lift the drinking embargo. I made the resolution in the first place to show myself that I don’t need to drink to have fun or to deal with my life. And I’ve proven that to myself. So I’m tossing out the resolution.
But not entirely.
You see… I’ll still have to restrict the drinking. Drinking goes against the diet. Which will be in full effect still from Sunday to Friday. So the only day I will be able to have a drink is Saturday (plus the exceptions, should they fall during the week).
I have a bad habit (just one – ha ha) of going to extremes. Eat “better”? NO! Eat perfectly! Do “some” exercise? NO! Run 5km every lunch! Drink “in moderation”? NO! NO DRINKING.
The trouble with that is how hard it is to maintain. Now, don’t get me wrong… I could finish off the year without drinking. But I worry if I hang on to that one I may let one of the others slide, and the others are more important to me.
This doesn’t mean I’ll see you in the pub this Saturday. But if I do… feel free to buy me a pint and help celebrate my newly discovered moderation.
Rarely. And when it does, it isn’t for us.
We live in a block of flats and when meter guys or delivery peeps want access to another flat, they always seem to ring our flat first. Douchebags.
And here is the worst part: Our door phone thingie doesn’t work. So when they ring, I have to go to the front door. Which I do, because what if… WHAT IF… it is actually for me? Like, a surprise delivery or something. I don’t want to send something like that away. But every time I have to put on fucking pants and answer the door and it isn’t for me early on a Saturday morning, I feel compelled to work on completing my plans for utter global annihilation.
I don’t think you have to worry about being in last place. Chances are you aren’t going to make it to first place no matter how hard you struggle, my friend. And there is no point in struggling to be in second-to-last place. There is no glory there either. And people know how hard it is going from last to first. So if you are in last place, there is no disappointment or pressure from anyone if you give up the race. You weren’t even close to winning anyway.
It’s the middle that sucks. The average. The mediocre. If you know that you are good enough to give it a try (whatever “it” might be), but not good enough that you will ever be the best at it (or even very good)… what then? Do you keep at it or do you give up? And why does it feel so much worse to give up from the middle than it does from the bottom?
That’s my thing. I’m average. Somewhere right in the overlooked middle of the group. Looks? Average. Smarts? Average. SkillZ? Mad. Nah… just joking. Also average.
I’ve actually wished that I could have the part of my brain that is so fucking self-aware lobotimised. If only I wasn’t aware of my own mediocrity, I think I could be happy with not being better than I am. Instead I get to be tortured by my own brain that somehow, for some reason, I will never get to be good enough because I won’t ever be in that top percentile when it comes to anything. No matter how hard I struggle. So should I struggle? Or should I find peace in being lost in the crowd?