Letting sleeping assholes lie.

This is probably a story that would’ve been more useful before Christmas, but maybe we can all carry the concept into the new year…

One of the best things my ex ever did for me was help me realize I shouldn’t let it bother me when assholes behave like assholes.

Years ago, my aunt said something REALLY hurtful to me on Facebook. I was at work, and had to leave my office and call my ex to cry about it in the parking lot. (I rarely cry. It’s one of many unhealthy points of pride. But she’d hit a nerve.)

And my ex said, “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“Because she’s horrible. Who would say that?”

“Well…an asshole would say that. You think she’s a dick, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you value her opinion? Do you want your life to be like hers?”

“No. She’s awful.”

“So why are you upset about what an awful person thinks? She’s an asshole. Why are you letting an asshole make you cry?”

“…Well, shit…You are absolutely…goddamn right…”

I was fine for years after that, but recently had a wonky emotional time in which I was letting her get to me again. It helps so much to keep that conversation in mind — how obvious it seemed, what a glorious turning point it was for me to finally see it, and also to know other people see it, too. It helped a LOT this past Christmas.

You go ahead and make your snide little comments, dearie. I don’t know what made you such a miserable jag, what made you so unhappy with your life, but you’re damn sure in no position to judge mine.

Namaste. Bitch.

In which I am at one with everything and everyone…

I MAY have just called the yoga DVD lady a bitch out loud, and told her that if I’m spreading my legs that wide, I better have at least one orgasm as a result.

So I’m glad to see I’m responding to the spiritual nature of regular practice.

In my defense, I’m in my living room and menstruating, and she’s doing yoga on a beach in a white bodysuit, so fuck her right in her third eye.

Ahem. Namaste. 

Instant bravery: just add beer.

I haven’t been buying things unless I absolutely had to, because I was going to be moving, so the less stuff I had to pack, the better.

Except I ran out of alcohol.

This would be fine ordinarily, but I’m down to the last bits of packing, which means I have to confront the Boyfriend Box — a bunch of relationship remnants I’ve had tucked away, out of sight and mind in the closet, for more than 2 years. Like everything else in the apartment, I’m going to go through it and see what needs to be kept/tossed/donated. 

So I picked up a six-pack of Dogfish Head Namaste beer. For, um, inner peace. Yes. 

Bonus: I won’t have to pack the beer if I drink it all. But worst case, I move a few bottles to the new place.

Namaste, a quiet night at home, and all of Fiona Apple’s albums on shuffle. 

Let’s dance, feelings. I ain’t scared.

Namaste…bitch.

I follow yoga sites on Facebook, because I want to be more relaxed, even if I can’t tell you the last time I unclenched enough to attend a yoga class. (This is probably why I NEED yoga, but my idiocy isn’t the point here.)

One of the sites just posted an article on yoga poses to ease menstrual cramps, and some bitch-ass bitch tagged her friend in the comments. As if to say, “Heather, you crampy whore, check this out! Even though I could easily send you this article privately, I’m going to tag you instead so all your friends and colleagues know what a whiny c-word you are when you’re on the rag! RAG TAG!”

Everyone knows there are only two cures for cramps: drugs and food. Fuck yoga. Please send Aleve and fried cheese.

I got your namaste right here. *brandishing cookie*

Namast-ay my name!

About to start yoga class, and as usual, it’s a room full of chicks.

Gentlemen. What’s that about? Is it just TOO many cute women in form-fitting clothes and compromising postures, offering their asses to the gods (and to you, by proxy) on all fours or in a position that’s actually called “downward dog?”