On Decisions and Standards

I swear it didn't happen on purpose, but I had my bedroom painted last week and it is almost the exact same color as my Air Royal Macarons. It's uncanny. Those happen to be my favorite sneakers, but believe it or not pink is not my favorite color. I think it's kinda dumb and girlie. But dammit if I don't love waking up in a room that looks like a goddamn birthday cake turned inside out.

This jackoff post is brought to you by my third night in the Pink Room on the impossibly high yet tiny bed that comprises most of my home life, lately.  Also by the fact that I haven't fully committed to staying here, in spite of the pinkness of my walls.

The new bed is plush, the softest sleep I've ever had. And waking up with the sunlight streaming in on my face is pretty awesome. And there is this tree friend right outside of my bedroom window that totally peaces me out when I'm anxious.

But it's still paining me to lose my windows, I miss the lack of boundaries in my old nest and the wide open space of the bedroom there. Twice the size of the one I have here, and facing southwest so it's all romantic when dusk comes. Not that I'm entertaining mega romantically lately, but it's nice to have the option, savvy?

A lady has to have options.

I've given myself another month to consider it. I might still stay in my old place and paint the bedroom Macaron Pink, plus buy a pillowtop for my grownup-sized bed. I also want forest mural wallpaper in my living room, on the big wall behind my sewing table. That way I won't miss my new tree friend so much.

But just so you know, in case you didn't already: moving - or even thinking about moving - is the fucking *worst*, dog. Everything that sucks about being an adult happens all at once and I find the whole thing overwhelming. All of a sudden I'm super aware of all of the people that need to know my new address. All of the services I pay for to keep my shit together.

Every fucking scrap of anything that I own or have taken responsibility for in the past 6 years needs to be inventoried, assessed for usefulness and boxed up. Then it has to be taken down 3 flights of stairs by strangers who will put it on a truck and haul it over a bridge. I don't know those people. What if they kidnap Alabama? Or my precious poster of David Bowie? Or my favorite picture of me and Goodie Mob in an East Oakland hallway from several lifetimes ago? What then?

I suppose what then can't be much worse than what is now, at least mentally. I know I don't have a particularly tough row to hoe, all things considered. But I am starting to feel a little crazy. Because what kind of person has their bedroom painted hot pink before they've committed to staying in it for more than 3 months?

A crazy person, that's who. A person frantic from indecision. A person at the end of her rope. A person who doesn't feel like calling or visiting PG&E, Comcast, Bank of America, Verizon, The Academy of Sciences, Network Solutions, the DMV, Apple Customer Care, Blue Shield, Dan the Tax Man, the bank who still partially owns my Jeep and the lady who waxes my fucking eyebrows to tell them that I've moved and they need to adjust all of my shit to reflect that.

That's who.

So yeah. In my own small way I am feeling particularly Stressed the Fuck Out right now.

This will pass. I've been through worse.

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Today I got to thinking about this advice one of my favorite ACDs gave me during a particularly long work night, basically an overnighter. We were on this holiday campaign for a big client and we didn't leave the office for more than 4 hours at a time for like a month straight. I was at the end of my rope then as well, and ranting to him about some person or another who didn't turn out quality work as quickly as it was needed.

I was taking it sort of personally, since at least half of my job is getting people to do what I need them to do on time and really well. We were smoking American Spirits and drinking Red Bull at 2am and I was cursing about this dude. I think it was a dude. Maybe a chick. Whomever it was, I was actually offended by their behavior. I told him I felt like they expected me to lower my standards for them.

He stopped me at the end of that sentence. He was a very chill guy, I was kind of in love with him but had a broken heart from someone else so didn't know it yet. He never once raised his voice or seemed to lose his temper even though he was under tons of stress. He was cool without trying to be cool. He had shaggy jet black hair, light brown skin and more knowledge of rap music than anyone I'd ever met in my entire life.

And hottest of all: he was really fucking smart. He stopped me ranting and told me very calmly:

Don't lower your standards. Adjust your expectations.

And you know, I'd never even considered the difference between the two. There's how I think it *should* be, and then there's how things will actually turn out. I still have a problem differentiating between the two, but his advice helped center me back then and I try to keep it in mind when I'm about to Flip the Fuck Out about someone or something.

The whole entire world does not actually live inside of my head, it turns out. Everyone has their own agenda and standards and priorities. And the Universe has a whole other set of that shit as well. And it's really not worth getting worked up about, even if I find myself up against a hot pink wall.

So yeah. Fuck it. Everything will work itself out.

*********

I've purged. I feel better now. The voices in my head are calmer. I might actually have sweet dreams.

I hope you do as well.