The doctors and your parents and social media and your whole life are telling you to, like, “live better.” Y’know, knock off the bad habits. Take time for yourself. Everything in moderation. De-stress. I’m a big fan of this logic, because what are my options really – that or melt under the weight of my own anxiety? I’ll take the decompression route. But I’m going to be honest here, y’all. It ain’t easy.
I am a huge fan of meditation. If you haven’t downloaded the app Headspace, wherein a gentle-voiced Aussie man whispers calming things in your ears about being a spectator to your own thoughts – run don’t walk. Download it and listen, because it’s amazing what some time spent cleaning your brain can do for unfucking your whole perspective.
That said, yesterday, yesterday, folks. It was one of those mornings my best friend Jordan and I call the “bring out the cameras” moments. It’s where you’re SURE there’s a reality show being made about you, where you’re not the star – you’re the victim – because nothing that ironic happens by accident, right?
So I’m driving to get my cup of coffee. I just got paid. I am prepared to make my final payment on my Honda Insight Hybrid Adorable Bug of a car, a literal trophy of my adulthood. Me: Debt Fucking Free.
I go to cross an intersection, taking a legal left turn on a green arrow, folks. Then here comes Crazy, can’t resist trying to slide her steer-sized automobile in on a right turn on red coming towards me, gotta get to yoga or something, so she cuts me off in the middle of the intersection. Fine. For that, Crazy, you get a honk.
Oh, though, she didn’t like the honk. Nope. She’s never operated a vehicle before (a fair assumption) so she assumes that when someone honks at her for doing something rude and technically illegal, she ought to pull off to the right side of the road. Into the bus stop. Because she’s Crazy.
So, with no cues as to what else I’m supposed to do about this woman who is operating 4,000 pounds of metal in inexplicable ways, I keep driving, and I take a right turn into the parking lot for my coffee.
But no, no I don’t, because she slams on her gas as I’m turning. She tears my nearly-free-and-clear little unassuming hybrid a new, Chevy Suburban-sized asshole all the way from the front of my passenger door to the rear bumper as I turn. My car is, le fucked.
I won’t bore you with the back and forth of what happens with the insurance company following that situation. I will, however, say that they’re trying to pin a whirlwind of total chaos on her part on me, using some wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, blue-haired 17-year-old kid at the bus stop as leverage. Nevermind that a kid who’s at the bus stop every morning probably doesn’t know a whole lot about car accidents; Nevermind that the insurance company is willing to take his word as “proof” and I’m stuck with my dick in my hands. Nevermind that my insurance adjuster was just straight up MEAN to me today.
The point is, now that I’ve given you all some context to my mental state, that I immediately made an acupuncture appointment yesterday, got my aura all shaken out, meditated for an hour, walked my dog in the woods, cold-sweated out an elephant’s-worth of adrenaline overnight, and woke up feeling totally awesome today. But then, said insurance adjuster was, as I mentioned, MEAN, and now I’m back in throbbing-headache-tight-chest-why can’t someone just be a normal human and see this for what it is mode.
My mom made a valid point. I said, “Mom, all the meditating I do. All the clean living. All the exercise, the sleep, the tea, and I’m still so vulnerable to other people dicking my aura over,” to which she replied, “Kackie, it’s not like you stubbed your toe. This is kind of a big deal.” Which is true. But fuck! Taking care of yourself, guys, it’s hard!
So cut yourself some slack. (Right? Right. Right?)
Even relaxing isn’t easy, a-fucking-pparently. …Ugh I need sleep.