Happy

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. A new idea about the transition of death. How you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas), or sitting at a stoplight (at the end of an amazing road trip). Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!
And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard, so goddamn always?

September is a big month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

As my husband deftly backs our car out of the driveway I can see from my passenger seat’s, bird’s eye view, that he is once again thisclose to a couple of landscape lights that dot the path down to the street.

He’s darn close…closer than close…he’s pretty damn near on top of them…”Um, you’re getting pretty close to those lights” I interject nervously. I can’t help myself, even knowing full well what I will hear next. “No I’m not.”

And just like the thousands of times before, he makes it down the driveway with millimeters to spare.

Jackass or genius? I’m still not sure.
It makes my heart pound and turns me into a nervous wreak every time and I have to admit: one of these days I want one of those metal lights to peel back the side of the car like a freakin’ can opener.

I just want to be right!

What the fuck is that? Well you guys — its human nature, that’s what! Sometimes I just want to be right — no matter the cost. Geesh! Will I ever learn?

When the water main busted back in 2009 and spewed millions of gallons of water into my store I was certain it was the DWP’s problem. And the insurance company’s.

Through no fault of my own I had been put out of business overnight. I wanted people to pay. “Make it right you jerks.”

Four years, three lawsuits, thousands of sleepless nights, buckets of tears and hundreds of cases of wine later – we settled.

It cost me tens of thousands in attorney fees (the truth is, they are the only ones that make any money), it most certainly cost me my peace of mind, and it almost cost me my marriage.

I felt life had been ridiculously unfair and I just wanted justice. But I paid a huge price.

After that craptastrophe of bad choices and heartache, I was forced to reassess my life strategy. I looked for the nugget inside the shit.

Did I want to be right OR did I want to be happy?

I was operating under the flawed premise that big checks with lots of zeros and vindication would make me happy.

Only time and focusing my attention on the future instead of the past would eventually fill that happiness void.

AND…
I started studying The Path of Least Resistance.

What choices can I make now that will get me what I want and where I need to be, with the least amount of blood, sweat and tears.

That’s a concept, right?
What about “no pain, no gain?” What about standing up for whats right?
We erect statues and monuments to the warriors whose lives are fraught with struggle. Was that me? Was that the life I signed up for?

Fuck no! Not anymore.

Sometimes life isn’t fair, oftentimes we get dealt a raw deal, so do we make it worse you guys, by digging in and fighting the person or situation or do we get quiet, gain some clarity, some perspective, and then make the hard choices from that place?

I am in NO way advocating rolling over and playing dead, or throwing in the towel at the first hint of conflict!

If someone fucks you over by all means get compensation, but know this: you will NEVER get every dollar that is owed you and they will NEVER admit their guilt or say they’re sorry. EVER. And eventually…that has to be okay.

Listen, if you’re like me and you want justice and you want to be told “Oh, you’re right, we were horribly wrong, here’s what’s fair and oh, by the way, we are So sorry, ” it ain’t ever gonna happen.

Remember this is coming from a Pollyanna with sunshine up her ass.

I’m not cynical — I’m someone who learned the hard way that life would have been so much easier and in the long run happier, if I had just recouped what loses I could and then moved on with my life, instead of marinating in the deep, dark, treacherous cesspool of the legal system for four years —just to tell my sad story, get everyone’s sympathy, feel vindicated and get fully compensated — all which never happened by the way.

I have several people around me who are currently going through some incredibly difficult and unfair situations and this is the advice I’d offer…but only after they ask.

Start off with the best people around you. The no-shit takers—yours or anyone else’s. The most informed yet least vindictive experts you can find.

Have an endpoint in mind, a reasonable dollar amount, and a timeframe that doesn’t make your head explode.

Don’t fight for fighting’s sake, meaning, if at all possible don’t play mind games that incite rage (you know what I mean) and don’t let your own rage write emails, refuse to sign documents, negotiate, compromise or make deals.

Don’t let it bother you each time he pulls out of the driveway, and for Godsakes don’t wish a car wreak on him when he drives like a jackass.

Being right is highly over rated, hard on relationships, and wildly expensive. Take it from me.

Carry on you warriors,
xox

You know that phenomenon that occurs when you spill red wine? How it is attracted to anything residing in the white color palette?

And even though it was only half a glass (okay maybe 3/4 of a glass – it was shitty day) the spillage appears to be more like an entire bottle and requires four rolls of paper towels to clean up.

You familiar with that scenario?

One glass of wine that has now ruined:
1) Your new silk and linen blend light beige pants that you’re wearing for the first time.

2) The white flokati rug that has the nerve to sit under your friend’s coffee table. (Who has white rugs?)

3) Your reputation as someone who can balance a glass of wine, a cocktail napkin, eat some kind of tartlet stuffed with cheesy goodness — and tell a funny story, without spilling a single drop.

What about a drop of black dye in a cup of water?
It swirls and undulates, acting as if it’s alive as it permeates every molecule.

Until in a matter of seconds it appears as if by magic that the entire contents of the cup had turned the color of midnight.

A single drop.
An entire glass.
Saturation.

When I wake up in the mornings, even before I get out of bed, I practice gratitude.

I’m thankful that I had the good fortune to wake up, that I can smell coffee in the other room, and that I don’t have to be woken up by the shrill ringing of an alarm.

I do that to get myself into a good feeling place. To keep my imaginary glass of water clear. It makes for a smoother, better day all around.

Most days I can stay there on pretty solid footing.

Other days I can’t make it to the bathroom without the spilled wine worries invading my thoughts; staining everything I think.

Recently, it seems as if black ink has been saturating me right as I come to consciousness. I think one nice thought and I get hijacked. BLAMO!

Black ink in the form of a troubling thought is swirling in my head as I try to find my balance; it’s reminding me of something awful, making gratitude the boulder I’m now struggling to push up the mountain of my mind.

If it takes hold I’m screwed. Covers over the head, might as well go back to sleep and reset, kind of screwed.

You all know how that goes. Once the wine or the ink stains your brain, once it permeates the entire glass of water, it is such an effort to escape –– it can ruin a whole day.

Then I remembered what my husband told me he was doing. Instead of letting an awful thought take hold and then attempting to play catch-up all day; he just kept his gratitude driven thinking going 24/7.

It took work but he was up to the challenge. The alternative was unacceptable –– it felt like hell.

“You can’t process thoughts from opposite parts of the brain at the same time.” He reminded me. “It’s impossible! Try being sad and grateful at the same time. Or happy and anxious. Love or hate. You just can’t do it. So I just drive around these days, ALL day –– feeling appreciation and gratitude. It keeps my thoughts from going dark”

He was right! (Damn, I hate when he’s right – insert forehead slap here) but what he’s doing is SO much easier than trying to turn your emotional ship around after its run aground.

You have the choice to pick a better thought. You do. I challenge you to try it.

Don’t get me wrong, some days are going to be a fight.
A fucking fist fight street brawl.

It will feel like using a tweezers and a magnifying glass to look for a needle of happiness inside of a haystack of sad.

But don’t give up. I know you; you won’t. You’re scrappy like me.

Feeling grateful, or something above despair, even in the shit times, is like those drops they give you to take to the Amazon to clear the water of all those swimming amoebas that’ll kill ya.

You swirl it around for a couple of minutes and viola! Your cup is full of crystal clear drinking water.

Let gratitude clear your glass of water. If gratitude is too far of a reach try a happy place moment.

I go to a beach on Maui on a seventy-two degree day, with zero wind, perfect rolling waves, warm water and my twenty-five year old body…sadness, at a least for a few minutes – out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a start, and SO much better than an entire day of feeling bad.

That’s all.

Carry on,
xox

“Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof.” (Because I’m happy)
That’s a lyric from the mondo hit “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. Which I sing…at the top of my lungs…in…my…car. Yep that’s me next to you on the 101 fwy. Deal with it, or better yet, sing along.

XoxJanet