My problems aren’t your responsibility (and, ahem, probably vice versa)
When I was 12 years old I convinced my parents to let me be a vegetarian.
I’d spent at least five years battling their two-bites-of-everything rule. If memory serves, my mom finally caved after I theatrically gagged some summer sausage back onto my dinner plate. I worked up some crocodile tears + puppy eyes.
I remember her standing in our dining room, hands on hips, and sighing. “You don’t have to eat meat anymore but I’m not fixing you anything special. There’s enough food on the table. You’re not going to starve.”
In our current state of helicopter parenting, this might sound harsh, but I think it’s completely legitimate. To this day, I’ll happily pick pepperoni off the pizza my friends ordered or dig the pork out of the soup. Being vegetarian is my deal. Which means I’m the one who has to deal with it.
Because I’m The Most Fun, I have plenty of other deals. Want to hear them?
- I get really motion sick and I’ll puke if we’re driving through the mountains (even if I take Dramamine).
- I don’t like it when people eat cocktail shrimp in my vicinity.
- There are various exes I’d prefer not to run into.
- I don’t like amusement parks or the State Fair.
- Wearing cashmere or angora makes me feel like the walls are closing in.
- I don’t like to be around large groups of drunk strangers.
- After about four hours of conversation or group engagement, the light turns off inside me and I need to go sit in a quiet place by myself. And preferably read lady magazines or nap.
And there was a time when I thought it would be really lovely if everyone ever went out of their way to accommodate my various neuroses.
You know who likes constantly accommodating one person’s needs? Absolutely no one.
If I don’t like it when you eat cocktail shrimp next to me, maybe I should move.
Rather than asking you not to invite my ex to that party, maybe I should go early. Or late. Or go whenever I want and then not talk to them.
You’re having a birthday party at an amusement park? How about I buy you a drink the day before?
If I feel myself reaching my social quota I can just excuse myself and go the eff home.
And nobody’s going to hold me down and make me wear angora. Of course it’s nice when the people in our lives work around our stuff! When they take into consideration our gluten intolerance or our fear of snakes or the fact that we’re on a really tight budget!
But ultimately, I am the only person who is responsible for myself, my happiness, and dealing with my issues.
And I imagine you’re in the same boat.
If reading fashion magazines makes you feel bad about your body, don’t read them.
If a specific friend always brings you down, stop hanging out with them.
If a friend invites you to a cabin weekend that you can’t afford, don’t go.
If you’re a vegetarian and your friends invite you to a steakhouse, either don’t go or go and order a baked potato and a martini.
If you’re gluten intolerant and you get invited to a potluck, bring a dish that you love so you’ll have something to eat.
If you’re having a rough, grumpy day, don’t take it out on your roommate/partner/parent. Go to the gym, go for a walk, write in your journal is a sulky, dramatic manner.
As harsh as it sounds, I find this approach really empowering.
Making my well-being someone else’s responsibility is an exercise in disappointment management.
When I decided that I was the only one responsible for working around my stuff, life got a lot easier. Friendships became a lot more fun.
(People like you more when you’re not asking them to stop eating that shrimp so loudly.)
What issues are you working through? How do you work around them without expecting everyone to make exceptions for you? (and have you ever been guilty of being too demanding?)
P.S. If this resonates with you, join my free, 5-day More Money, More Happy Bootcamp. It’s a week of helpful emails, an interactive workbook, live classes, even a private Facebook group. For zero dollars! I’d love it if you joined us.
