It’s been a week of defiant promise breaking which is my not-so-subtle way of telling the universe to go fuck itself. At 6:00am Monday morning, when the alarm went off–with finally more than a wan suggestion of light in the sky–instead of getting up to work on my book, I defiantly turned the alarm off and rolled over. I rolled over on Tuesday and Wednesday, too.
Although I have made commitments, I have made green juice a total of zero times this week, run a total of zero times, and had wine every night–not so very much of it but also not the agreement I made with myself.
Basically, I’ve been nursing a disappointment and expressing my vast disapproval with The Way Things Are Right Now by deciding not to keep any of my promises to myself. In other words–having a temper tantrum and waiting for the universe to take notice.
I am upset about __________ , a thing about which I can do absolutely nothing, and will express my disapproval of The Way Things Are Right Now by willfully not tending to myself, or to my dreams. I mean, have I not demonstrated a significant enough showing of good faith effort? Have I not behaved myself? Is it not now time for the universe to put out?
Excellent plan, right? So sound and filled with gangster logic?
The insult to injury is that the mini-rebellion I’ve staged isn’t actually all that satisfying. It is, in fact, downright unsatisfying. There is a certain way in which, having made a conscious choice, it becomes impossible to go back to the old unconscious ways. When you begin to grow out of a lifestyle you can’t cram it back on with much success.
It’s not that I feel guilty about breaking my promises, or that I’m in any way more Type A. More than anything, it’s that I see the futility of my current course of action.
No amount of refusing to wake up in the morning is going to successfully hold a gun to the universe and hijack it into meeting demands. Attempting to coerce reality doesn’t pay the mortgage, doesn’t make him love you more, doesn’t magically get you knocked up, and will not do a single thing for your bad hair.
Attempting to exact reparation from the universe by sabotaging myself is just plain dumb. It doesn’t work.
“Give me what I want or, as God as my witness, I am going to…to…to turn off this alarm clock! I’m just desperate enough to do it; don’t think for a moment that I won’t.”
I still don’t feel like making the damn juice but shall concede to at least buy one from the juice bar.
I might rough it up a little before I drink it.
For the record the author does not actually own a firearm. Read more of Bernadette’s posts here.
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. A Letter to my Children: You do not come from a Broken Home. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. Mom, can I Call her Mom, Too? An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. Jon Stewart makes first appearance since retiring—”it’s not your country.”