Tidings of discomfort and joy.
Self-discovery is an inconsiderate bitch.
Y’all know I hate winter; it’s no secret (I can hear you: “yes, the cold, the dark, you hate, we got it, enough already”). But at one point recently during one of those zero degree days, I had a harsh realization. And it hurt more than the -15 wind chill.
I was brooding for the hundredth time about the cranking indoor heat wreaking havoc on my dry skin. And my eyes just about rolled all the way around inside my head, 360 full degrees. I’m surprised they didn’t pop right out and bounce across the floor.
I had found a way to complain about the multi-thousand dollar machine that keeps my three bedroom, two and a half bath ranch at a constant 71 degrees when it is LITERALLY zero degrees outside. This is gold medal worthy privilege-ing, you guys.
And the more I mulled this tendency of mine, the deeper under my thoughts and feels I dug, until it hit me:
The worst thing about winter is having to face my ridiculous level of comfort.
And lately, I am increasingly uncomfortable with my level of comfort. And I’m most uncomfortable with my ability to be completely comfortable inside my level of comfort.
It’s not a guilt thing. Because where I was born, when, and to whom were out of my control. And my life and my days are not always “easy” (relative term). I’m supposed to run a business AND remember to change our air filters? HOW?!
It’s more of a FOMO thing. A new kind of FOMO I find myself seeking out: fear of missing an opportunity: An opportunity to give comfort from my reserve. An opportunity to make a day easier. An opportunity to lighten a load. An opportunity to do something small that feels big to one who needs to know I see (and care).
I want to sleep at night confident I’m not missing these opportunities.
I fully embrace this type of FOMO and I refuse the Fear of Missing Out.
Those voices can’t convince me I’m less than, when in reality I have way, way more than. More than I need, more than I can even use, more than most Americans, and way, way more than nearly everyone in the wider world. How easy it is to forget.
So the next time I’m at QuikTrip and I swipe my card to fill my gas tank without even a second thought and then get impatient that the ice dispenser (WHERE I CAN CHOOSE FROM TWO DIFFERENT SHAPES OF FROZEN CLEAN WATER) isn’t filling my fountain cup quickly enough, I won’t be so jarred awake by the older gentleman who searches and empties his wallet of two singles and asks the attendant to put $2 of gas on pump #9.
I’m willingly removing my layers of insulation. I’m seeking painful exposure to the elements. I’m desperately trying to push past obsessing over my own health, happiness, and well-being.
I have self-fatigue. I may as well get uncomfortable with it.