When you have made it a little farther into this post, you will realize that heroism is a relative term. But it works rather well in this case, so I decided to keep it.
To be succinct, my life stinks right now. Not a passing whiff from the garbage truck type of stink, but the kind of persistent stink that comes from wearing footie pajamas at night - putrid, obvious, and constantly with you until circumstances change. It had been one of those seasons where I get put in the crosshairs on one day a week - usually the same day every week - and the stink of that one day carries through. Today, I was so focused on my crisis, that I locked my keys in my car... at the gas station... because I was so involved in my mental dialogue that I threw the keys into my purse, and leapt out of the car without them. I live a block away from the gas station, so a quick walk home for an extra key did wonders to clear my mind. (It may have been the soda I inhaled on the way back, but I will give exercise the credit.)
I sat down tonight to write a Facebook post detailing the agonies of my day. I wrote it, published it... and deleted it. I realized in that moment, I had become "that girl". You have all met her, the one who won't let you get a word in edgewise about your week or your trials because hers will always be bigger. The one whose life is a constant state of hair-pulling stress, and she must pull from your energy to justify her frenetic state. The Debbie-Downer. I have one of those in my life. You love her because she makes you laugh with her tales of woe, spun in a snarky, dramatic fashion. But she makes you feel insignificant, and a little invisible. I enjoy her... and dread her at the same time.
With that realization, I stared at my computer screen and made my resolution - nevermore. This was followed by another realization, one involving a chocolate cake mix that was lying dormant in my cupboard. So, while the cupcakes bake, I will come up with something better to do. There is a little old dog with wise eyes that needs a tummy rub, and a ukulele - that I demanded for my birthday - that should be practiced. Who knows, perhaps I can pull out my rendition of "On Top of Spaghetti" at our next Italian church supper?
The moral of this tale - be a hero of your story, and have a cupcake!