Hey - Relax

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me to relax, I could probably afford that LCD television I've been pining for, plus a full body tattoo of me watching said television (with diamond inserts for my glazed eyeballs). I will admit, it is kind of ironic that someone such as myself - who spends the bulk of his unpaid time taking on leisurely pursuits like loafing, blogging, loafing, playing with a toddler and meditating on sleep - should need to relax anymore than I already do. But alas, it (apparently) is true. Even last week, my dental hygienist told me to "relax" after I noted my awkwardness in trying to carry on a conversation with two hands stuffed in my mouth (I thought I was justified).

While speaking through two fistfuls of rubbery fingers is kind of stress-inducing, it ranks rather low on my list of ulcerisms. Money is near the top, as is my irrational fear of pine cones... and my own social ineptitude... and how other people may perceive my puzzling inability to tuck in a dress shirt. Having a home that (i) may or may not require a laundry list of renovations, both cosmetic and otherwise, and (ii) is subject to the scrutiny of the sneering suburban soccer moms and wrinkly gossiping windbags of Colby is also up there. Surprisingly absent from my list: Lydia contracting swine flu or becoming a werewolf.

I acknowledge that short of winning the lottery and/or sitting through years of corrective therapy, none of the above are going to go away anytime soon. Also - I may be getting a reputation as a whiny narcissistic ball of stress. So consider this an early New Year's resolution: I shall try to relax, just like my dental hygienist told me to.

Om.