Adulting

I’m pretty good about budgeting my complaints. That’s right, I allot a specific portion of my headspace and verbal fortitude to complaining. I feel it’s the responsible thing to do. I’ve read articles and listened to talks about why complaining is ‘not good for you’, but that seems highly suspect to me. What makes someone a lifestyle ‘expert’ anyway? What are the qualifications? Living? Cool… consider me an expert.

Budgeting your complaints is basic economics — mental health economics, that is. Here is my expert opinion: If you give yourself to regular, portion controlled bouts of complaining (about regular everyday things… like laundry, pee around the base of the toilet, taxes…), you create headspace for more important, productive thinking endeavours, like this blog.  It’s just good mental health, right? Right.

Complaining is the air escape valve on a pressure cooker. Science. Yes.

It’s also wise to store up a bit of space in the complaints department. A savings account for when the Complaints Account is depleted, but you have an overwhelming need to vent.

This morning, while sipping a lukewarm cup of tea, I am going to drain my savings account. Prepare yourself.

I’m usually proficient with all the adulting stuff that I have to deal with every day. I’m a adequate adulter, not to be confused with adulterer. I cook, I pay the bills, I keep myself and three other humans alive. And, I’m good at complaining about it. Adulting is a sensible area to spend your complaints.

What I’m not good at is the unexpected, completely unnecessary shit that makes adulting more arduous. Case and point: Descaling the coffee machine. WTF?! This is not my job!

Look, I paid good money to own a machine that grinds my beans, filters my water and then produces cafe quality coffee. GOOD MONEY! And I’ll concede that I have to empty out the filter and fill the water thingie. It’s a pain in the arse, but I’ll do it.

Dealing with the mechanics of my percolator BEFORE I get a morning cup of coffee… Oh, hell, no!! I’ll drink tea.

shit. SHIT.

(I know,  I know, first world problems, and I’m an ungrateful cow. But it’s my blog and my savings account, so …)

I’m done. Spent.

Before I go, I’ll issue a word of caution.

Beware of people who never complain. Those are the people who have a leviathan lurking in their brains, just waiting for a moment to initiate a personal apocalypse. They are the crazies who end up painting the Mona Lisa in their own blood (or someone else’s).

It’s all about portion control, people. Everything in moderation.

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