Moose in the Kitchen

I feel all shiny and new. The radiant glow of my good mood is delighting those around me and inspiring heavenly song and a new, larger brand of Hershey’s bar. Well, not exactly. But I’m not quite as glowery as usual and I like to think people appreciate that.

Precisely nothing has changed but my attitude. I wish I could say that it was by force of will and my own superior discipline that I shifted from Evil Glower to Sunny Glow, but it totally wasn’t. Like those girls who toted infants to math class in 11th grade, it just sort of happened.

My dance teacher, she o’ many observations about my dance ability and overall character, mentioned on Tuesday that it looks like I’m not quite in control. Like someone is using a remote control to make my arm swing up and my head swivel. (And perform a flailing chicken dance on joyous yet dignified occasions. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.) Number one: how awesome would that be? and number two: I’m not surprised, because that’s exactly how I feel. Often I get caught in the crap shoot of “what button will the clown with the remote control push today?” If I try to force a good mood, perhaps via chanting “I WILL have a good day! I WILL have a good day!” complete with fist shake at the sky, then the snotty machine won’t accept my Bart ticket, I’ve forgotten my wallet and I have to walk to work. Up hills that appear on previously flat ground simply to taunt me. Until it begins to rain and I plop down on the side of the road and use my glare to melt the paint off passing cars.

Perhaps it’s my approach. Less fist shaking may be in order so the universe doesn’t see fit to punish me for daring to challenge its order. The order that demands I act like a constipated drama queen. The problem with The Great Almight Funk is that just because you want to change your attitude doesn’t mean you can. This feels entirely too victimized by a great ocean of emotion for comfort, but you know. The ocean of emotion. It’s salty and wants to pull you under so it can lovingly lick your face. Because it likes you. A lot.

You know what you should do to pull yourself out of the salty sea of “leave me alone or bring me more Cheetos, but either way shut up”. Getting off the couch and putting away the Cheetos is a good start. But sometimes it doesn’t help. Or you just don’t want to relinquish the Cheetos. And by god, you’re in a Great Almighty Funk, so you shouldn’t have to, damnit. Unfortunately, the justification of self pity wears thin after, say, the age of three.

But, hey! I’m over it now! So enough with the boring introspection. I’m in a good mood. Though you may not be after I force you to ponder the failed state of your cultural consumption by telling you what I get to do tonight. I’m seeing Debbie Does Dallas. The musical. I kid you not. Observe.

Related posts:

1. Only Two Words in the English Language More Frightening Than “Hot Pants”
2. Any More of this Nonsense and I’ll Need an IV
3. Tango Con Mediocridad
4. The Crown, It Doth Bind