WHY YOUR EXCUSES ARE LIES (OR WHY YOU NEED TO STOP MAKING EXCUSES)
Ughh, I hate myself.
I hate my old self, I mean, the self, that made so many excuses my head spin–which excuse shall I pull up now out of my files? The bad childhood excuse? The too busy with work excuse? The my-dad-died-poor-me excuse? What about the genetics-predispose-me-to-getting-fat excuse?
Which excuse will it be today, Grubas? Which one do you choose?
Up until about 3 years ago, I had a rolodex of excuses I pulled out and slammed in front of me every time I felt sorry for myself.
That rolodex served me well—it massaged my mind, it softened the blows of reality—it made me feel okay being a bottom dweller.
I used that rolodex until I met someone who had the same excuse as I did. Actually worse. I met a man who had such bad parents they had extinguished Marlboro butts on him. I met a man whose parents were drunk more than they were sober until one of them died. I met a man who ran away from home at the age of 14 only to offer up his own straight ass for gay sex for voyeurs on Church St. just to make money for a breakfast bagel. I met a man who, in the process of pimping himself out, had a customer carve a deep “L” with a knife in his belly.
This same man I met took all that garbage and went to recycle it. He took that garbage and went back to Sheridan College and got a degree and then turned a church into a homeless shelter and then pulled other people out of the universal gutter all up with him while he praised GOD.
God, I hate my old self.
How could I make excuses when men like these exist?
Another situation. I looked at my flabby belly once and said to myself, “God, if only I had more time.” “If I was working less hours in a less stressful job,” I told myself, “I would be fit as before.” And then guess what? I found out that the older FIT woman at work whose physique I envy has TWO kids she takes care of herself, yet she pulls her ass out of bed at 4 AM to workout before one kid cries out for a diaper. What am I saying? She makes choices not excuses.
Choices not excuses.
Another example. I look at myself in the mirror one day and I tell myself, “Why can’t you be more positive, Grubas?” You know what I mean. “Why can’t you be more positive like so-and-so over there, always smiling and chippy? Why do you have to be so pessimistic?” And then, sure enough, my excuse rolodex whirrs to the rescue. “Oh, well, so-and-so must have had a happier childhood then me. That’s why she’s so happy and cheerful.” Except not. I find so-and-so was raped by her uncle as a child and went to therapy for years. She could have made excuses, but she made choices.
Choices not excuses.
I am telling you, brother, there is no excuse out there that is real. All of them are mirages. They are all fake, sweet-smelling strings of smoke that make us feel good for the while but then evaporate into nothingness while we stay pushed deeper into our our pile of crap.
Join me now. From now on, for us: It’s choices not excuses. Choices like getting up early. Working out. Socializing when it’s HARD. Smiling when it’s HARD. Being kind when it’s HARD. Doing work when it’s HARD. Gritting our teeth when we are about to blow a fuse and it’s HARD. Saying “hello” to shitty people and “I love you” to ourselves in the mirror when it’s HARD. Doing anything that’s HARD.
Because there will always be excuses, but the choices we make will transcend the comfort the excuses provide because the choices we make? The choices lead to our happiness.
With love as always.