Old Man Winter vs. Unsettling Optimism

I hate winter. Words cannot describe my hatred of winter. Super hate. HATE with all capitals.

I hate wearing the same clothes over and over again with little to no variation because they are the warmest things I own. I hate shaving my legs only to get out of the shower and have the hair grow out all anew while I shiver and clutch my towel. I hate having no sunlight. I hate having to put lotion on all the time. I hate using conditioner. I hate static. I hate how it's always cloudy but when it's not there is that fake winter sun that gives no heat. I hate how we don't get to hibernate like bears. I hate how Obama left out "no more winter" in his campaign promises.

Basically unless there are Christmas lights up, it's snowing, or it's my birthday the entire season of winter can shove it.

But at my life coach camp I learned all about being positive and grateful. So I have decided to refocus my grump into thinking about what I actually do like about winter.

So here goes:

I like whiskey. Whiskey is a perfect winter drink. I like fancy dining. Nothing feels more cosmopolitan than a fancy restaurant in the winter. I like fireplaces with warm fires. I like hot chocolate with marshmallows. I like warm covers with warm puppies.
And I LOVE my snow pants.

But most of all I've decided that I will look forward with great glee to the beginning of Spring. Only 60 days away peeps! We can handle that. Even though it won't be considerably warm then- think of all the flowers and the birds and thoughts of water sports to come.

Hopefully I can keep this going for a little while longer, it's around the cold days in March when I really start losing my mind. If I lose it again this year- I'm going to have to move to Florida. And none of us want that. Hear me Obama? I expect change and soon.

Welcome to the Dollhouse

Confession: I've recently become dramatically uncomfortable in crowds- so much so that at a recent large event my work hosted, I broke out into hives.

Seriously. Hives.

Specifically, one hive, on my face, that looked exactly like the spitting image of an inflamed mouth herp. My first thought was to go to the bathroom and never come out. My second was to run down Lexington Avenue until I got home. However, like a bad dream from junior highschool, my boss had appointed me door greeter so I had to do something to retain some kind of dignity while I talked to people FOR THE NEXT TWO HOURS.

So I did what any self-respecting neurotic would do and ran to the back office and downed two shots of whiskey. (It's by the grace of God that I work in a wine/liquor store) I sat in the back for awhile until the whiskey took effect, the hives started to go away and I could go face the crowd. And when I walked back out, congratulating myself on my ability to overcome adversity, I was met with your other worse nightmare from junior high: this guy. This guy that always comes into work, this guy that I have always thought is cute. This guy standing right there looking at me.

You might think that I turned and fled, ran to the front and started to greet- and you are right! -the whole time trying to hide from him. But o! dear readers if junior high taught you nothing else, it probably taught you that when things are bad, despite your best efforts, they often get worse.

For the first time in the months that he has been coming in he decides to talk to me. He introduces himself. We laugh, we talk, we flirt, the whole time I'm convincing myself that he must like messy girls like myself- he must like quirky girls with receding hives, flushed cheeks, stringy hair, and possibly food stuck in their teeth. He must, of course, be that rare man that is good looking and wealthy and seeks out disasters with sweather fuzz glued under their arm. Of course! It's the only thing that makes sense.

And after he touched my arm and said, "I'll see you again when its not so crazy" I was excedingly happy with myself and the ability of my heart to rise yet again from the ash like a retarded puppy phoenix with a waggy tale (my heart really must win The Little Engine That Could award for effort) and I rushed home to do some Facebook research where I discovered that he HAD A GIRLFRIEND. Not only a girlfriend, but a perfect girlfriend. Beautiful, pulled together, great clothes, the whole nine yards. Suddenly, my heart is no longer a phoenix rising from the ash (even a retarded puppy one), my heart is one of those plastic moles that comes up to be bopped down with a mallet while the machine makes yuk yuk noises and the eight year old bops it down again. And laughs. And points.

See, there are two types of girls in the world, and I've always known which kind I am: A mess.

I'm the one with ketchup on her shirt who gets so excited when telling a story she may spit food out. I'm the one that gets uncomfortable in crowds, sometimes drinks too much whiskey, and might possibly repeat herself more than once, more than once. And then there are perfect girls who you just want to follow around with a notepad and figure out how they do it, how do they keep their clothes perfect, how do they keep their emotions in check?

My mom's solution for me (she is a perfect girl) is to just keep trying. Get back up on that horse. But I know that no matter how expensive my outift that I will slowly slide down until I'm staring at horse butt and he pees on me. And at that moment I'll run into someone really attractive.

So I've given up. For big events I make an effort, but beyond those, I just do the best I can and go on. I've learned to laugh at myself and my ketchup stains- it's who I am right? But over the weekend my mom argued that I've just stopped caring, that I should keep trying- and my question to the readers is: at some point shouldn't you just accept that you are a mess and try to love that mess or should you keep trying to be the perfect girl?

I think that if you keep trying to be the perfect girl you will keep failing and thusly, feel bad about yourelf, but on the other hand you may feel bad about yourself for never trying.

Ah dear readers, its a conundrum 'Ole Daisy has had ever since around the age of ten when she got her first bad haircut, glasses, and braces all in two months. She knew that hers would never be a perfect life. But at least now, as a grown-up, she can take two whiskey shots and get on with it, even though some might dribble down her chin.