When Less Isn’t More.
Over a tall pint of beer, a glass of Cab, and an enormous chocolate chip cookie, me and a friend put in some work at The Grove. And somewhere in between talking about Kony 2012 and crazy exes, he called me “reserved.” Soon after, I received a text from satan himself telling me that hell froze over. But I guess I could see how he would think that. Ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you I’m crazy. Ask any of the guys I’ve been crazy about, and they’ll probably tell you I couldn’t have cared less.
While it sounds and is ridiculously stupid, the title of seeming careless was something I worked for and prided myself in. In the past, I made so many irrational decisions that I immediately regretted, and I was tired of making choices I wished I could take back the minute I hung up, or pressed send, or got in my car. One day I went against the grain, and waited things out before I lashed out and I was rewarded with an outcome that although wasn’t ideal, was definitely in my favor and not one I regretted. Since then, I figured if I can’t control my feelings for someone, I could at least control how that someone thought I felt.
But now more than ever, it seems as if this ideology is backfiring on me. I find myself accepting things I normally wouldn’t accept, and tolerating things I normally wouldn’t tolerate. I was making the unreasonable reasonable, and vice versa. I was constantly questioning my instincts, second-guessing my motives, and keeping my mouth shut, just because it seems like the “cool” thing to do. Not cool bro.
Pacing back and forth during the wash cycle at the laundromat the day after, I received a pep-talk slash tongue-lashing from the homie Mike. Midway through me telling my story he asked, “Was there a time in your life where someone called you crazy and it completely traumatized you or something?” although it was more of a statement than a question lol.
I started to think about what had only become obvious at that very moment, and things started to make sense. Because there was a time. A time where it wasn’t what I actually did, but where my mind was at when I did it that made me crazy. The thing about being a recovering loca, is you try your hardest to be the exact opposite of who you were are and end up driving yourself (not to mention your friends) crazy. You must pick and choose your battles, but not at the expense of dismissing your how you genuinely feel.
I guess I thought that if I pretended to not care, I would eventually not care. But instead of being carefree, I was just careless. And instead of caring less, I just became careless.