When the Mighty G Speaks

You guys, this woman is too much. The Mighty G once again reminds me that life is too rich to be taken seriously.

I get a phone call today around 4:15. The G is at Ralph's. Wait! Backstory: last night I turned down her offer of a night on the town because I had my Cranky Pants on. I took a hot shower, moisturized well, watched some Will and Grace (I wasn't kidding about the addiction) and went to dreamy-dream land. Anyway.

We had spoken earlier today about how things are never as bad as they seem. I have a face, therefore my woes over my fluctuating chemicals and confused heart is nothing. I have a face. A face with bones in it that invites people to come over and chat instead of causing them to run and scream in fear. Yes, the Mighty G reminded me that because I had dimples people can see and eye sockets that these baby blues rest in securely, life cannot be as bad as I think. She also threatened to serenade me with Journey songs until I got my head out of my ass. Just another nugget of gold from the tiny dynamo I call one of my best buds.

Anyway, back to this phone call. Here I am, tortured by the clock, wishing for 6PM or maybe a death that will not come. The phone vibrates. I look at it and wonder why "Trouble" (as she is listed in my celly) is calling. I flip open the phone. She is agitated.

"Grae?" she says, out of breath. "I'm in the Ralph's and I had a realization."

I commented on how that isn't something you hear everyday. She chucked briefly but continued. "You know why you REALLY don't get to be depressed?"

I braced myself. She was starting to yell.

"You have nailed a couple/few of the hottest guys ever IN THE SAME FISCAL YEAR."

Stop for a moment, why don't you, and picture my friend, the Mighty G. She is about two inches tall, with flippy dark brown and auburn hair (ever-so-stylishly highlighted by the Fabulous Mizz Pat). She often is found with her arms crossed, silently judging others. There is always a twinkle in her eye that either means she loves you or is going to stick you with the shiv she has hidden in her pants pocket (she's Mexican).

So this woman is standing in the middle of Ralph's, perhaps in the sausage aisle or near the condoms. Or maybe she was just picking up some Cheddar cheese--who knows, with this one. But regardless, she is in the grocery store yelling at me through a cell phone.

"Seriously, Grae. You don't get to be depressed EVER again." and although she doesn't have all her facts completely right, the truth of her statement remains. I really don't get to be depressed. Not only for the above reason, but because I have a face and also beacuse shit really isn't that bad.

Stop for a minute and think how this applies to you. You have a face. You can read (and thanks for choosing to do that here). You can wrinkle the skin on your nose and make it all cute. Maybe you have nice lips or abs or are really smart. Maybe you have a great talent for art or making people laugh. Most likely, you have at least one quality that makes people think about you when you're not around. So loosen up, whites. Be thankful for what you've got. Pinch yourself on the bottom or pat yourself on the back, whatever tickles your fancy. You are great. No go get 'em, tiger.

rawwr. g

Post-script: The Mighty G, aka Thunder, has declared that I be sorrow-free for 6 weeks because of her realization. I just received this email. And I quote: "I called you at 4:19 p.m. Feb 23 2005  If you so much as say to me that you feel "woozy" and six weeks from that date haven't passed I will violate you with a crowbar."

I love my friends.