from funk to fab. also. hello autumn.

I was in one of those funks the other day. Seriously, the cloud over my head was dark and threatening to rip wide open.  I was sitting with a dear friend in a café, crabby for no good reason and he asked me to stop and think about those things that were good in my life right now. And though I generally loathe having sunshine blown up my ass while in the midst of a funk, preferring to wallow in sad music and draft an existential crisis manifesto, I played along (having blown sunshine up thine’s rear end in the past).

“Fine”, I said, “I’m grateful that this espresso is God’s gift to earth, that this cookie doesn’t taste like ass, that I am here with you (you’re pretty cool) and that I am going to London soon to see the man I love. There. Done. Happy? Permission to sulk now?”

The funk was very ornery and obviously had no intention of leaving anytime soon. And his pal, guilt, was lurking around too.

For some reason, the situation reminded me of something someone once said to me. I was talking about my imperfections, I suppose, and she said “Imagine, I have this handicap. I can’t unbend my thumb. It’s been bent for as long as I can remember and there is nothing I can do about it. But I spend my entire time focusing on that damn thumb, cursing it and pouring all my energy into it and while I am busy doing that, I am neglecting the other four fingers, which are very capable and have much to offer.” She said sometimes you just have to let go of what doesn’t work and focus on what does. She used to teach self-defense and she would tell people, “Don’t fight with what is taken. If your hands are bound, use your feet. If your legs are pinned down, fight with whatever is free.”

So that night, I surrendered. I dismissed the drill sergeant with a “buck up, son” attitude (the judgmental dude that lives in my head). I hung my brave face in the closet and allowed myself to wallow. I sat with the funk. I let it in. I stopped fighting it. Stopped trying to figure out the source. Stopped. Full Stop. I may have even had one too many glasses of wine and cried over some cheesy chic flick.

The next morning, I woke all puffy eyed and went for a bike ride up the mountain and down through the cemetery. And that is where my funk finally lifted. All the stuff, which I somehow stirred up the previous day, sank to the bottom and joy rose to the top (in the most unlikely of places, there, amongst the dead).

Just like that. Poof! As if I’d sprayed funk-be-gone all over my psyche. And I realized that, indeed, you’re sometimes better off accepting certain situations rather than fighting like hell. It’s all about channeling your inner Kenny; know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em, folks.

Also, that damn sunshine sure does help…. how can anyone possibly resist its ridiculous cheer?