Broken Filter

I was at the mall today and as I made my way from my favorite store back to my car, in my periphery was a bright pink image. My first thought was that there may have been a Pepto Bismol display close by. Much to my shock and awe, it was a rather large woman in hot pink velour leisure/sweat suit. My emotions were confused, I was happy because it gave me a good laugh but then I was saddened because people are being exploited by so called fashion designers. I’m sure velour has its place, but two yards of hot pink velour hardly has a place on someone’s ass. Such an item should not be made in any size above a double zero, and the quantity should be limited to one. What could have possibly gone through this victim’s mind as she looked at mountains of options and settled on this hot pink number as a must have? As she waddled down the isle I secretly wished for the days when some businesses banned patrons from wearing the original leisure suits in their establishments. I am by no means a fashion maven but I would like to believe that I have some sense of what looks good on me versus what looks like a cure for nausea, heartburn, upset stomach and diarrhea!

I sat in Starbucks today (only because I like the smell of coffee) and I saw an older gentleman walk in. He bought his snack then took a seat in one of the small upright wooden chairs. He then ate a piece of his pastry, had some juice and promptly fell asleep. All this happened in about five minutes. Then, I saw his head slump forward; I was momentarily alarmed because I thought “OMG, he’s dead!” (Yes, he was that old). I stared at him for about 30 seconds because that’s how long it took me to see his chest move with each breath. How embarrassed would I have been, had I rushed over “sir, are you okay?” only to have him wake up and say “yes, damn it, I was just napping.” I’m glad I didn’t disturb him, he may have been embarrassed if I woke him up in public. So I left him there, as he drooled a red substance unto his shirt. Apparently he didn’t finish swallowing before he fell asleep. To be that tired – I guess it takes 90 years of living. Soon after the drooling started, someone startled him. He woke up with hands flailing, knocking his drink unto the table, floor and his pants. The red stains on his t-shirt now matched those on his pants. He got up from the table, took up his trash and slowly walked away.

I turned thirty years old a few weeks ago and I must say I feel pretty much the same as I did before the clock struck 12am on that day of my birth. “They” lead us to believe that 30 years old is the age at which we all start that green mile stretch to our impending doom. I think “They” may have been a contingent of losers (fat, bald, White with a touch of ED) who bonded together to make people miserable. “They” even have well educated, level heading folks saying things like “Oh my God, you’re 30, what are you gonna do?” As if turning 30 is a rare and fatal disease. If you get to 30 and you feel like crap, then chances are you got talked into the toilet. By “Their” standards there are certain things one must achieve before hitting 31, if this is not done, surely one ought to be and deserves to be miserable. If you listen to “Them” and still miss these achievement milestones, you will most certainly plunge into depression and look like crap by the time you are 31. This series of events will lead to the inevitable breakdown by the time you are middle age (a whopping 35!) The actual number of years a person lives is not important, I feel the content of the years are more important. I don’t have a problem with telling people my age; “age is something that doesn’t matter, unless you are a cheese.”

A few months ago my mom asked me if I was happy and to me it seemed like the weirdest question. I even got a bit annoyed! A simple question like “are you happy,” yielded confusion and momentary paralysis, followed by thoughts such as” how dare she ask if I’m happy?” and “what the hell kind of question is that?”
In theory happiness seems like a simple enough thing; yet, many people have no idea what it means to be happy or even how to achieve it.

Growing up, adults made happiness seem like a state of perpetual perfection, ergo, no one was happy. People cheated, they lied, they hated their jobs, their partners, their kids, their neighbors, their fellow church members and they all seemed miserable. They went about their daily lives in a manner that made it appear as if they were waiting for a magical chime that would signify “happy time!” Or, they just wanted to hurry up and get through with this life so they could get on to that life with the guaranteed happiness. Some people got the chime and some didn’t. As far as that other life goes, the jury is still out.

To me, it’s easy to spot a happy person; happy people smile and mean it. They give openly and love freely, they want to nurture things, they are curious, they skip at random times and they hum! If you are around a happy person you know it, because either you “catch” the happiness or you want to kick their ass because they are messing with your “misery index.” A happy person can be a sad person’s kryptonite or their can of spinach.

Some people make happiness seem like a pie in the sky, some kind of impossible high. The thing that you can only achieve if you get to that certain level of wealth, perfectly balanced with the right level of beauty and adoration. A friend told me that happiness starts with a decision and right now I choose to believe that. So I made a decision to be happy, I started looking at the glass half full, I got a pair of shades with one rose colored lens (pacing myself.) I will give more and expect less; I’ll do what I love and love what I do. I’ll even try to be nice to those people who try to steal my joy. My “everything” doesn’t have to be perfect. If I wait for everything to be perfectly aligned, my happiness will be fleeting and will occur about as often as a complete solar eclipse.

So to my Mom, yes, I’m happy and the plan is to remain that way.

I often get the feeling when I’m about to shrug off my most pervasive thoughts and feelings that a bit of my inside is dying. It’s an actual physical feeling that starts in the pit of my stomach then makes me feel warm all over; my life in the present flashes before my eyes and I get nauseated. This can’t be a good thing, I’m positive this may be the equivalent of eating bacon for breakfast, lunch and dinner . This self sellout is called compromise and is sometimes for the best because that one moment of internal death is worth it to avoid the fallout from disagreement. I understand now why I don’t have a lot of friends, I can’t do the mini death for everyone; so, I will reserve it for those select few.