Jesus just cockblocked my lazy day

I took a couple days off, trying to alleviate some work burnout, and put myself on the waitlist for a popular class at my gym tonight. I figured if I got in, that was Jesus telling me to get off my ass and leave the house, and if not, clearly He’d prefer I stay home and watch comedy shows.

They just emailed me that I got in, and godDAMMIT, Jesus! This is why I’m not religious!

Ugh. FINE. I’ll do something “They” claim is good for mental health — fucking hippies tryna thwart the part of my brain that’s perfectly content being fat and depressed, thankyouverymuch. 🙄

“Hippies, hippies…they want to save the world but all they do is smoke pot and play Frisbee!”

Some days all the hippie feely stuff I follow on Facebook makes me feel better.

And then some days it’s like, “Hey, you know what, Special Snowflake? Shut the fuck up with your groovy bullshit.”

Ugh. It’s like my therapist wants me to feel…BETTER.

Tonight I told my therapist I’m going to a doctor for a yearly checkup. She said, “Suppose the doctor says your bloodwork is fine, and your only prescription is more exercise — that a consistent workout regimen would definitely make everything better. Would that motivate you to make it a more regular habit instead of just once in a while?” And I told her no. I wouldn’t take a “real” doctor’s order any more seriously than my therapist’s. I know hippies will sing the praises of exercise until the goddamn grass-fed, rainbow-raised cows come home. But I’m waiting for the day they say it’s all horseshit, like they just did with flossing. Dentists have been up our asses with floss for, what, 50 years? Then suddenly they’re all, “NOPE, it’s just minty string.” (I don’t necessarily believe that, I’m just being petulant.)

But I get it: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”

Fine, I’ll add more exercise. Fine. FINE.

Don’t make me hate you.

Over the weekend I finally settled an issue with a family member who “didn’t want to talk about this.”

I get that, I really do. I don’t want to talk about it, either. But if you keep refusing to talk when I need to, I will hate you. I won’t mean to hate you. I won’t want to hate you. But you’re telling me I’m not worth the time, or enduring the minor discomfort you’d feel during a conversation? No. I’m not gonna smile and play Cool Girl while I silently stew in your bullshit.

We’re adults. We talk about it, or we don’t talk. Your call. Reasonable? Of course not. But I’ve learned that NOT communicating solves nothing. It just creates larger problems because now everyone is operating on presumption and hurt feelings.

I forced a 10-minute, in-person conversation because I thought it was worth forcing (because I don’t want to spend my life butthurt), and now we’re good.

I fucking hate when hippies (ie, my therapist) are right and I can’t just be Irish and swallow my rage. Swallowing is my favorite. Oh. Wait, no…