it’s hard for me to get angry. although i have zero problem with theatrics. theatrics are different: hair flipping, dramatic sighing, finding the good light for lip pouting and scowling, but not so much brow furrow to cause wrinkles or lines.
even the word “angry” repels me. it’s like an unwelcome, foreign hair in my ceasar salad i can’t send back to the kitchen because i’ve ordered it to-go, and i’m already home. getting angry connotes being uncouth and impolite, like belching at the dinner table or the orange county housewives.
but typically i just tend to get very, very sad instead. it has always been a problem with me. partially because i imagine the very, very sad having a chicer wardrobe {rodarte} and more soulful soundtrack {sweet dreams} than the angry girls.
but for a while now….at least through the last season of scandal– i gauge my time lapsed via television episodes, the size and bite of the crocodile at my door seems to have less an effect on the cortisol in my veins.
good people, an open and honest heart, four-legged beasts always ready for a dance party, and a strong cup of coffee every morning? what more could a girl ask for?
the size of my happy is infinite. reptiles and monsters still exist; it’s year of the snake y’know, but they don’t stand a chance against my armor of jubilance.
size does matter.
{photo: Lauren Imparato, I.AM.PARADISE}
