My purse committed suicide last week. Okay...that's not entirely true. I may of assisted in its murder. In my defense, I was drunk. No -- drunk is not a sufficient enough word to describe the state I was in. I was totally, ridiculously, insanely and outrageously wasted. It was the end of the night on my 25th birthday last week and as I stumbled out of the cab to get home (in 4-inch heels, no less), I left my beautiful black purse in the backseat, thus committing the first crime of my quarter century year: pursicide.
One wallet, $200, one passport, a driver's license, health card and several bracelets later I learned my first lesson of the latter half of my twenties: shit happens. Keep calm and move on. The first part of that lesson has never been my forte. A highly emotionally-charged being, I'm prone to freaking-the-fuck out when shit hits the proverbial fan. Mostly on the inside, some times on the outside, and always electronically. My poor Droid has received the brunt end of my emotional lashings via endless texting spazzes and even a few throws...thank goodness for hard box cases. What do these freak-outs do? Next to nothing.
Besides dehydrating me via the massive amount of water I expel through my overused tear ducts, having mini meltdowns over ex-boyfriends this, missing out on that and everything else that tends to cause me stress just makes it worse. I always tease my barely emotional friends for being robots, but at times I wonder if life really is easier with the ability to suppress any uncomfortable feelings. Unluckily for me, I'm a freakin' feelings monster who seems to thrive on functioning at a wavelength that only prepubescent girls and I can hear.
And much to my recent dismay, immaturity is exactly what I've come to realize freaking out amounts to. I'm twenty five now for goodness sake; I think it's time I get a handle on two things: 1) that exes suck balls and 2) that my emotions can't run my life. Mr. Roboto, I never will be, but there's definitely room to improve emotional intelligence-wise. I know my tear ducts will thank me later.
Suddenly one wallet, $200, one passport, a driver's license, health card and several bracelet's doesn't seem like such a high price to pay for one darn good realization: taking control of things that affect me negatively and making them not is entirely in my hands. A wise man (ahem, Thomas Neary) once told me progress is the key to happiness...ending teenage emotional sprees at twenty five may be late, but it is progress nonetheless. From pursicide to epiphanies -- it's all about taking negative experiences and transitioning into positive realizations. Shit happens. Freak out momentarily. Keep calm, keep smiling, and move the fuck on.
x
