Grumpy, it seems, is the new happy. Following years of getting a bad rap, mine and Victor Meldrew's favourite emotion is making a long awaited comeback.
According to research reported on the BBC news website, being in a bad mood makes us 'think more clearly.' Professor Joe Forgas, an Australian psychology expert who led the study, found that being cheerful can make you more creative, whereas feeling gloomy will make you more attentive and a careful thinker. In other words, feeling a bit down in the dumps once in a while is actually good for you and can help you make the right decisions. The ironic thing is, I could have told you all this back when my cousins and siblings were berating me with nicknames like 'Mrs Happy' and 'Mardy Bum.'
We have been bombarded for the last decade with the concept of positive thinking. Books like 'The Secret' brainwashed us into believing that by continuously thinking positively about a given situation, all potential obstacles would disappear. This was all well and good in the Noughties when the world was enjoying an economic boom. Everything and anything seemed within reach. We could afford to think positively all the time, and, if not, we would whack it on a credit card. Today, the new era of frugality and sombreness brought about by the recession, demands something a little less optimistic. It is now unrealistic to believe that positive thinking can solve all our problems - just ask someone who has recently been made redundant. Being grumpy is therefore the perfect antidote.
Don't get me wrong - I still believe it is desirable to think positively in certain situations. Believing that you're going to do well in a job interview is far more beneficial than walking in believing you're going to fail. However, there is a time and a place for both being negative and positive, and we should not ignore our feelings just because they are not particularly good ones.
It is therefore time to feel good about feeling bad. For one, feeling bad about something tells us that we need to bring about change in our lives. How else are we meant to know that a given situation is not right for us? Just like being scared is a warning that something poses a physical threat to us , I believe being grumpy is a warning that something poses an emotional one. You need to feel persistently bad over a period of time about your job to realise that you need to find a new one, for example.
Some of my greatest decisions have come following long mardy spells. The Great Grumpiness of 2006 led me to move to Dubai in early 2007. Had I sat and done what the positive preachers instruct us to do and tried to make myself believe that everything was great, I wouldn't have moved. The reality was, Lincoln was not right for me and my job was boring. I was miserable and no amount of positive thinking was going to make me feel better about the situation because what I really needed was change. I left and everything worked out for the best. Being grumpy gave me the kick in the right direction.
So from now on I'm not going to feel bad about feeling down. I'm going to revel in it, reach for the chocolate, pop open the bubbly and celebrate the fact my next big life changing decision is probably on its way.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Wake Me Up When January Ends
I have always hated January. The post-Christmas anti-climax coupled with those extra pounds you piled on from all that festive eating and drinking lead you to smack back down to earth with a great big wallop, and suddenly all that was magical and wonderful feels very grey. Despite the fact my hearty post-Christmas dinner rear-end cushions most of the blow, I still find January bloody hurts.
For one, everyone is broke. Now that there is a recession this is felt ten fold. All those fools who spent Christmas Eve panic buying iPhones and Guitar Hero version 8327 will have already had their credit card bill through the letter box and sent it straight to the shredder in denial (No, you couldn’t afford it then and you certainly can’t afford it now). Suddenly those ‘oh, go on, it’s Christmas’ drunkard purchases that were made in a haze at 10.56pm at your local Wetherspoon don’t seem so wise. Penny pinching is very much the theme of January and that spreads over into all areas of life. We frequently have ‘leftovers’ for dinner and we ‘make do’ with 10 pints instead of 15.
Another reality that sets in during January is how much of a big fat failure you really are. You spent most of the end of December saying how 2010 would be your year. You made a list of the things you were going to achieve: better job, better ass, better bank balance. Everything seems possible and I put this down to December’s excessive alcohol consumption. Sure, everyone feels they can be as rich and successful as Bill Gates and as beautiful as Beyoncé after one too many sherberts. Even those lists you lovingly wrote that detailed how you were going to achieve all of this made it look possible. Then January comes. The job sites are bare and all you want to eat are deep fried Mars bars. The possible is made very much impossible. I call this the January effect.
When I lived in the UK I put a lot of the unhealthy resentment I have for January down to the weather. Anyone who has lived in the UK knows that the weather is more depressing than sitting through a New Labour conference. January in the UK generally looks like one big grey ball. You look outside and you can’t tell where the grey begins and where it ends. Every day since September you’ve had Christmas tree baubles and lights shoved down your throat by the High Street chains and while this may have seemed grim at the time, at least it added colour to the landscape. All of a sudden you are wishing that the Christmas lights were left up all year around to brighten your spirits. That man from Wiltshire who celebrates Christmas every day of the year isn’t so crazy after all – he was on to something.
It is also generally freezing cold and wet. Rain, rain and more rain. The bad weather means you are confined indoors, which means that any chances you had of burning off those extra post-Christmas pounds are zero to none – NO one wants to eat salad when there is a blizzard outside to contest with. Instead you fry everything, add a load of stodge, and cover it all with mounds of gravy and butter.
I genuinely thought that by moving to Dubai, some of my January-orientated hate would be alleviated. For one, at least the sun is always shinning. If you are a lady it is also still possible to be as drunk as you were in December thanks to those wonderful things called Ladies Nights. However, the anti-climax is still hard to shake off. The job sites are bare, my next holiday is months off and my bank balance looks like it’s been hacked by Alistair Darling. I can’t afford to go away when all I want to do is escape reality. The end of the year is supposed to herald new beginnings, yet everything is the bloody same. To top this all off, any hope I had of some entertainment has dissipated, as my pre-Christmas fling has disappeared into the ether; quite possibly, I suspect, another victim of the January blues.
I have therefore decided there is no trying to dress January up to be something that it isn’t. That would be like trying to transform Skegness into Miami. The conclusion is, this month has always been miserable and will continue to be miserable in the future. It is best to write it off and hope things will be better in February. That way you save yourself the disappointment when nothing materialises.
Therefore, I am off to hibernate. Remember to wake me up when January ends.
For one, everyone is broke. Now that there is a recession this is felt ten fold. All those fools who spent Christmas Eve panic buying iPhones and Guitar Hero version 8327 will have already had their credit card bill through the letter box and sent it straight to the shredder in denial (No, you couldn’t afford it then and you certainly can’t afford it now). Suddenly those ‘oh, go on, it’s Christmas’ drunkard purchases that were made in a haze at 10.56pm at your local Wetherspoon don’t seem so wise. Penny pinching is very much the theme of January and that spreads over into all areas of life. We frequently have ‘leftovers’ for dinner and we ‘make do’ with 10 pints instead of 15.
Another reality that sets in during January is how much of a big fat failure you really are. You spent most of the end of December saying how 2010 would be your year. You made a list of the things you were going to achieve: better job, better ass, better bank balance. Everything seems possible and I put this down to December’s excessive alcohol consumption. Sure, everyone feels they can be as rich and successful as Bill Gates and as beautiful as Beyoncé after one too many sherberts. Even those lists you lovingly wrote that detailed how you were going to achieve all of this made it look possible. Then January comes. The job sites are bare and all you want to eat are deep fried Mars bars. The possible is made very much impossible. I call this the January effect.
When I lived in the UK I put a lot of the unhealthy resentment I have for January down to the weather. Anyone who has lived in the UK knows that the weather is more depressing than sitting through a New Labour conference. January in the UK generally looks like one big grey ball. You look outside and you can’t tell where the grey begins and where it ends. Every day since September you’ve had Christmas tree baubles and lights shoved down your throat by the High Street chains and while this may have seemed grim at the time, at least it added colour to the landscape. All of a sudden you are wishing that the Christmas lights were left up all year around to brighten your spirits. That man from Wiltshire who celebrates Christmas every day of the year isn’t so crazy after all – he was on to something.
It is also generally freezing cold and wet. Rain, rain and more rain. The bad weather means you are confined indoors, which means that any chances you had of burning off those extra post-Christmas pounds are zero to none – NO one wants to eat salad when there is a blizzard outside to contest with. Instead you fry everything, add a load of stodge, and cover it all with mounds of gravy and butter.
I genuinely thought that by moving to Dubai, some of my January-orientated hate would be alleviated. For one, at least the sun is always shinning. If you are a lady it is also still possible to be as drunk as you were in December thanks to those wonderful things called Ladies Nights. However, the anti-climax is still hard to shake off. The job sites are bare, my next holiday is months off and my bank balance looks like it’s been hacked by Alistair Darling. I can’t afford to go away when all I want to do is escape reality. The end of the year is supposed to herald new beginnings, yet everything is the bloody same. To top this all off, any hope I had of some entertainment has dissipated, as my pre-Christmas fling has disappeared into the ether; quite possibly, I suspect, another victim of the January blues.
I have therefore decided there is no trying to dress January up to be something that it isn’t. That would be like trying to transform Skegness into Miami. The conclusion is, this month has always been miserable and will continue to be miserable in the future. It is best to write it off and hope things will be better in February. That way you save yourself the disappointment when nothing materialises.
Therefore, I am off to hibernate. Remember to wake me up when January ends.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
No second chances
I spent most of 2009 contemplating one question: is there such thing as fate?
I'm not religious, but the idea of some 'higher being' having mapped out a story for each one of us appeals to the romantic side of me (yes, believe it or not, it exists). So, no matter how much you sway away from what is meant for you, somehow fate will bring you right back to it. It will throw up the right opportunities for you and should you mess up the first time you will get a second chance, because, hey, you're meant to go down that path! It's a comforting thought for people like me who spend most of their lives thinking and less of it actually 'doing'. I can choose not to act and still think I will get another chance. Fate will look after me.
I then start to think of all the children starving in Africa, or those living in war torn regions - suddenly my idea of fate doesn't sound too romantic. I don't see when they get their fairy tale ending.
After a whole year of questioning this concept, an incident proved to me that regardless of whether you believe in fate or not, if you're not prepared to act on what you want when an opportunity presents itself to you, then you have to be prepared to acknowledge the fact you may not get a second chance.
It was the most romantic scenario. The type that could inspire a Hollywood screen play. I'd missed my flight to Birmingham, because I got stupidly drunk the night before and slept in. I ran to the airport, but it was too late. I had to admit defeat and catch the next flight. Luckily, even though the next one was fully booked the staff managed to get me a seat.
I went back to the airport six hours later to catch my newly assigned flight and as I was sat at the departure gate, I saw a tall, dark and handsome guy sat opposite me. He looked over, I looked back. We exchanged several glances, I grinned under my fringe.
Boarding time and I was one of the last to get on the plane. As I scoured the seats to figure out where I would be sitting, I saw him straight ahead. I looked down at my ticket - 22I. I looked up at the seat numbers - he was sat in row 22, right next to the seat I was meant to be sitting in. I smiled to myself - these things NEVER usually happen to me. I'm always sat next to people with bad coughs, screaming children and alcoholics. Never the hot guy, though.
I sat down. He made a few jokes. I laughed and blushed a little. A little too good to be true, I thought to myself.
We took off and about an hour into the flight the woman next to me decided to make conversation. When he started chatting, it transpired that he wasn't even meant to be in that seat - the cabin crew had asked him to move. So not only was I not meant to be on that flight, he was not meant to be in that seat.
The woman on my right turned out to be a racist git, who made an inappropriate comment and stopped our conversation in its path. None of us spoke again until we landed. He offered to get my bag down from the hold and I accepted. I saw him again in the luggage hall, we exchanged a few more glances, then he disappeared through the 'nothing to declare' door at Birmingham Airport. Inside my heart was screaming 'do something,' but my head told me to just let it go. I took the easy option.
So, was it fate? Well, you would think so. I wasn't meant to be on the plane, he wasn't meant to be in the seat. Yet, I did nothing about it. I didn't even find his name out. And as a consequence, I will probably never see him again. He doesn't even live in Dubai - he lives in Doha. This dwindles the chances of meeting again down to virtually none.
So I begin 2010 with a new philosophy. I've forgotten about fate and I vow to act more on impulse. Magic doesn't just happen - you have to make it happen for you. Had I acted on flight EK to Birmingham, perhaps this story would have had a Hollywood ending. But I didn't. And I probably won't get that second chance.
I'm not religious, but the idea of some 'higher being' having mapped out a story for each one of us appeals to the romantic side of me (yes, believe it or not, it exists). So, no matter how much you sway away from what is meant for you, somehow fate will bring you right back to it. It will throw up the right opportunities for you and should you mess up the first time you will get a second chance, because, hey, you're meant to go down that path! It's a comforting thought for people like me who spend most of their lives thinking and less of it actually 'doing'. I can choose not to act and still think I will get another chance. Fate will look after me.
I then start to think of all the children starving in Africa, or those living in war torn regions - suddenly my idea of fate doesn't sound too romantic. I don't see when they get their fairy tale ending.
After a whole year of questioning this concept, an incident proved to me that regardless of whether you believe in fate or not, if you're not prepared to act on what you want when an opportunity presents itself to you, then you have to be prepared to acknowledge the fact you may not get a second chance.
It was the most romantic scenario. The type that could inspire a Hollywood screen play. I'd missed my flight to Birmingham, because I got stupidly drunk the night before and slept in. I ran to the airport, but it was too late. I had to admit defeat and catch the next flight. Luckily, even though the next one was fully booked the staff managed to get me a seat.
I went back to the airport six hours later to catch my newly assigned flight and as I was sat at the departure gate, I saw a tall, dark and handsome guy sat opposite me. He looked over, I looked back. We exchanged several glances, I grinned under my fringe.
Boarding time and I was one of the last to get on the plane. As I scoured the seats to figure out where I would be sitting, I saw him straight ahead. I looked down at my ticket - 22I. I looked up at the seat numbers - he was sat in row 22, right next to the seat I was meant to be sitting in. I smiled to myself - these things NEVER usually happen to me. I'm always sat next to people with bad coughs, screaming children and alcoholics. Never the hot guy, though.
I sat down. He made a few jokes. I laughed and blushed a little. A little too good to be true, I thought to myself.
We took off and about an hour into the flight the woman next to me decided to make conversation. When he started chatting, it transpired that he wasn't even meant to be in that seat - the cabin crew had asked him to move. So not only was I not meant to be on that flight, he was not meant to be in that seat.
The woman on my right turned out to be a racist git, who made an inappropriate comment and stopped our conversation in its path. None of us spoke again until we landed. He offered to get my bag down from the hold and I accepted. I saw him again in the luggage hall, we exchanged a few more glances, then he disappeared through the 'nothing to declare' door at Birmingham Airport. Inside my heart was screaming 'do something,' but my head told me to just let it go. I took the easy option.
So, was it fate? Well, you would think so. I wasn't meant to be on the plane, he wasn't meant to be in the seat. Yet, I did nothing about it. I didn't even find his name out. And as a consequence, I will probably never see him again. He doesn't even live in Dubai - he lives in Doha. This dwindles the chances of meeting again down to virtually none.
So I begin 2010 with a new philosophy. I've forgotten about fate and I vow to act more on impulse. Magic doesn't just happen - you have to make it happen for you. Had I acted on flight EK to Birmingham, perhaps this story would have had a Hollywood ending. But I didn't. And I probably won't get that second chance.
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