Let’s start with the purely frivolous, move to the semi-legitimate but self-imposed, and then try and put everything in perspective.
“My employer is making me go back into the office now. It’s so stupid. It’s such a waste. Honestly, I might quit. This is ridiculous.”
Is it? Is it ridiculous? For the entire existence of mankind, employees have had to be physically present at their worksite. But now, it’s an outrage apparently. My favorite are the folks who aren’t even being asked to come in every day. They just have to show up twice a week. Entitled and disgruntled, they take issue with Wednesday or Friday as the days. I suspect if it were Tuesday and Thursday, they wouldn’t feel any better about it. So, you’ll have to hire a dog walker at lunch twice a week. You’ll have to commute occasionally. You may even have to brush your teeth and put on real clothing. Man, oh man…. The hardships you face. The injustice!
I lied, my true favorites are the ones who moved away somewhere cheap and are now mortified that they may have to move back.
You arrogant bitch. You thought you would have an arbitrage opportunity for the rest of your life? You could make that Silicon Valley salary and pay Huntsville prices?
“But I already bought a home here!”
Womp Womp. Call the fucking waaambulance. Perhaps you can reapply to the company’s Birmingham office and get into that Alabama pay-band. If a 50% downward cost of living adjustment ain’t up your alley….. start packing.
Another area I hear lots of complaints from both men and women, the middle-aged dating scene.
“Ya, she’s pretty hot and she was real cool….. But I don’t know, man. She’s looking for something serious and I just, I am just, I just can’t commit to that right now.”
Buddy, buddy, you’re 40 years old. You’re taking out women in their mid-30s. Ya man, they want something serious. It’s just the way life goes.
Their retort is that they don’t enjoy dating girls in their 20s cause these girls are immature and they can’t really relate to them. That porridge is too hot, that porridge is too cold……. Oh yeah? I don’t have time for this shit.
Ladies, you’re not off the hook either. I hear what you’re doing out there. Sometimes directly from you, sometimes through the Peter Pans.
“I am dating with intention. I will only date someone that is 6’3” or above. No cheapskates, I want to be taken out to dinner.”
Let me start with the height requirement. How would you feel if some guy put on his profile or texted you that he simply won’t waste his time with a girl that doesn’t have (at minimum) a set of perky D’s? You would probably call him a pig and a douchebag. Appropriately so. Also, not to be crude, but you simply can’t get off unless the guy is in the 88th percentile of height? So, if the guy looks like he walked out of a Bowflex commercial, has the facial bone structure of the actor that played Thor, but is 5’11”…… No? Not good enough? Won’t move the needle for you?
Also, you were blessed with finesse and intuition. Don’t give homeboy ultimatums right off the bat. He doesn’t even know you yet! Use your intuition to size him up within 3 minutes of meeting him. If you’re interested, enchant him with your wit, charm and femininity. He’ll be buying you sushi dinners and become very intentional, I assure you.
Last but not least: Remember, just like you encounter Peter Pans that waste your time, some of the boys who would like to be intentional have some of their own horror stories. Just last week one of our loyal readers complained that his date drank 5 Dirty Martinis at dinner. That’s $100 in cocktails, probably another $100 on food and another $30 for the uber ride to get Sloppy Sally out of your life forever. Could you imagine trying to make a life with someone who consumes 15 blue cheese olives in one sitting?
Now to the semi-legitimate complaining. I must admit that I fall into this category.
“All I do is work, parent my kids, take care of the pets, clean the house, and pass out”
When I was young, I felt like Icarus. Now I feel like Sisyphus. From Brisbane to Budapest, Mykonos to Mexico City. Clubs until 4 AM, heroic intake of cocktails. Waking up confused with ketchup on my foot. Meeting up with the other hungover hooligans to try and piece together what exactly happened the night before.
Now us parents are in a different routine. Wake up, walk dog, parent, work, walk dog, parent, work, clean house, pass out. Every now and then I take a puff of some herb to make the 1030 PM to 1115 PM cleaning more tolerable. Others have it way tougher than me. My buddy has twins and he says that: “Every day is the hardest day of my life”.
You know what though, when I come home from work and that beautiful little girl screams “Dada” and runs over to give me a hug…. It’s more than worth the grind.
What I’ve noticed is that those that have the most to complain about tend to complain the least. My good buddy had cancer as a young man. Overcame it, now he does Ironmans and is constantly improving himself physically and mentally. I haven’t heard a single complaint from him. Other family friends have also battled serious illnesses and face those challenges head on without any whimpers. My own mother earned the nickname “the fighter” from the hospice care workers. She also refused to take pain medications because she wanted to be fully lucid when interacting with us; and yet not a peep about how hard it all was.
So, in the grand scheme of things, it is best to be positive. Perhaps on your Wednesday or Friday metro commute to work you will strike a conversation with a gorgeous 6’4” man. Immediate chemistry. As for the kids, keep putting in the effort and they will reward you with decades of love. “Dada” will become “daddy” and eventually “dad”. They’ll go from needing you every minute of their lives to not needing you at all to eventually helping you and keeping you company in your old age.
Last piece of unsolicited advice: Embrace the nonsense. Don’t get mad at Sally for slamming five cocktails on your dime. Lean into it.
Insist on closing the show with a stiff digestif. Perhaps some Drambuie. Once that syrupy swill visibly rocks her brain, start slamming your fists against the table and chant: “Puke! Puke! Puke!”. Every former fratboy or sorority sister in the restaurant will instinctively follow suit making for a raucous and unforgettable chorus of revenge.
Lemons into lemonade.
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