This year I've come up with four things I've struggled with over the years that I really need to let go.
Judging adults who talk about pot like they were naughty teenagers
|Let's leave "Billy Bong Thornton" out of the convo, shall we?|
I don't partake, but it was one of the few things that helped my brother with his chemo sickness.
As long as you know your source and aren't supporting the cartels who murdered my friend's entire family for their ranch land, I really don't care. It's filed firmly under Grown People's Business, meaning I don't want to know you "scored" some "herbal supplements" any more than you want to know I "ate" an "English muffin."
Still, if that's what passes as interesting and exciting in your life, it's no skin off my nose and I'll do my best not to harsh your mellow with my silent pity.
Caring about Mexican punctuality, even a little
I still hate to be late, but after a few years in gloriously inconvenient Mexico I don't get the eyeball twitch when other people are.
When you live in the land where everything seems custom-designed for maximum bureaucracy, expecting first-world promptness is ridiculous.
There's always some legitimate but unpredictable hold up (witness the gaping hellmouth that opened up along our main highway two weeks ago) so factoring in a one to two-hour delay is simply a way to avoid having a stress-related stroke before you're 35.
Individually plating anything, ever again
My first party in Mexico the earliest guest arrived four hours late with half a dozen people who hadn't been invited. This is standard practice. I'm getting better about inviting 15, preparing for 30 and only having five, but it wasn't until last year that I realized an overcrowded party can be fun (it helps that I have that atavistic Southern urge to have twice as much food as anyone could ever eat) and there are worse fates in the world than spending a quiet night with a few pals and eating fancy leftovers for the next two weeks. If I want to plate something, I can do it at the end of the party, when the person who swears he was "a friend of José's" asks for a plate with a little bit of everything to take his abuela.
Realizing vulgarians gonna vulg
Again, mostly an American thing because true vulgarity generally requires a certain amount of disposable income. I just can't spend another moment sullying my beautiful, beautiful mind in semi-repulsed awe at other people's deportment. I have spent too long wondering what life choices led a person down a path where one day they walked into a shop and voluntarily plucked out something casual with rhinestones, animal print and lamé and said "Yes. This is the shirt for me. It describes all that I value and want to convey and I shall have none other." This is the year I accept the stereotypical Southern Californian boomer is unknowable to me and just be grateful they gave us Pet Sounds.
So that's what I've got so far. What would you put on your Epiphany List?