I Got This, Hold My Beer.
Whether remote or not, it’s something we all strive, crave, and ultimately fail to achieve. And upon our quest to attain said Holy Grail of society we often experience spectacular horrible things, too terrifying to mention before your children's bedtime for fear they interrupt your late, hazy sexual advances on your almost comatose partner while they’re watching “Sister Wives” on PVR.
A famous example of my inability to control a situation happened in the winter of 2013. We had made a hasty exit from our visitation one evening when my son, Lord Nomis, began complaining of stomach trouble. This is actually a fairly common trick we use to escape any awkward situation. Simply ask your child to talk in the other room, punch them in the stomach, then leave on account of digestive tract “issues”. Oh the number of times I’ve had to hit my kids……..
Anyhoo……. Driving home to Leduc, Pregnant Wife complaining of being uncomfortable, as usual, (am I right fellas?!?……..fellas????…….) we suddenly hear Lord Nomis complain loudly and become upset. We reach back to comfort him, thereby asserting my control over the situation, when he projectile vomits all over himself. STOP!!!
Sidebar: I HATE BEING DIRTY!
It’s smelly too. Hot, sweaty, meaty vomit pours from him and covers Lord Nomis in his car seat. He immediately begins to cry. Almost louder than me (almost). We immediately begin to console him while pulling into the nearest parking lot.
This is it. How will I regain the ability to control this situation. One surefire way is to……..
PW: It’s okay I’ll help.
‘Opens side door, takes the smallest whiff of son. Promptly starts vomiting everywhere’
Fucking ME: No! NO! NO! NO! Not in the car Oh MY GOD!!! Outside!!!
Had she heeded my warning and stayed in her seat she my not have puked all over the side of the van further riling up Lord Nomis. But, given the circumstances, I can’t be so sure, now can I, Erika.
I usher my very pregnant wife back into her seat. Strip my son and redress him in –20ºC, and get him back in his seat so we can go home. It was at this point…..
PW: I need a towel…..
FM: Why? Did you get some on you?
PW: I barfed so hard I peed my pants.
‘Face-palm so hard my head hits the concrete’
There are some things you can’t control I feel. I cannot control my wife’s undying urge to be there for her children. God, her love of her children often stupefies me, considering the lengths she will go to quell their hardships. I cannot stop her, and likely no one can. She refuses to lose control of those beasts.
Should we though? Sometimes? Relinquish control to others. The universe has it’s plan and we shall see how it unfolds?
Anxiety is a lot like a barfing child. It’s present, real, and wildly inconsolable. In my case, I lack control. However, I would liken it more to giving control. I allow others to determine my value and therefore I over analyze, over evaluate, attribute false values to actions/outcomes that I may be a part of. So I do nothing. This is easier than doing the wrong thing. I simply pause until I feel I can regain control by some means, or wait for an opening to quickly leave. But it is paralyzing in most cases.
Some interpret this as shyness, though this is contrasted with the person my close friends will address. And I will even tell people I am shy. When in reality I am frozen in a terrifying anxiety having sacrificed control to strangers/friends/vomit spewing monsters.
This is by no means an excuse to not talk about it or have it be there. In fact the more I talk about it the more I feel I can act against my anxiety. It becomes less powerful when I realize how unfairly I am treating others and myself.
That’s the point though. Talk about it.
Never be silent, unless you want to be.
Never stop. Always keep moving forward.
This is similar to running. As a runner you are required to never shut the fuck up about your PR, the race your training for, or the last race you were at. It’s pretty much in the handbook, but that hasn’t been printed yet because some runner is pretty busy talking about how many seconds they missed their BQ by to finish the last chapter.
But keep moving. It doesn’t matter the pace. Eventually you’ll get faster, eventually you’ll go farther and before you know it, it’s on to the next race, the next hill, the next PR. There is where I take control. I push my body farther and harder and it responds.
There are moments when my body tells me to back off. This is the crossroads, and I can choose to continue with my plan or heed its warning. Not being present, not listening to my body often leads to injury, which leads to me ‘missing that PR by 10 seconds’. Or worse, another week/month/year resting an injury.
It’s not always about being in control. In my life, sometimes it’s enough to listen and stay out of the vomit stream.
Lord Nomis just performed all over his bedroom (he wiped it on the wall! THE WALL!!) so I’m going to go ‘control’ that situation.