Book review on "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" (9/4/17)

This book arrived in my life at just the right moment. Originally, I was a bit hesitant based on the title. I'm glad I didn't give in to judging a book by its cover because this book did not disappoint in the slightest. Once you keep laughing and get past all the blunt F bombs more so in the beginning (which only adds to its humor and charm), "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck worms its way into your psyche if you allow your heart and soul to go down the rabbit hole with Mark Manson.

It's part hero's journey, part helpful suggestions, and part (non-bullshitty type) self-help insights on life drawn from psychology, philosophy, and a mindful stance of "not giving a fuck" (ie, choosing what to give a fuck about and more so what NOT to give a fuck about in the overall scheme of things). It's nothing that I don't already know on some level, but it's his delivery and particularly the way he integrates it all that drew me in. This book is like a wake up call when you need a swift kick in the ass in your life.

I also strongly identified with his life changing event that he mentions towards the end of the book: how a close friend of his suddenly and unexpectedly died and how that then redefined him as "before" and "after." While it can profoundly transform a person, tragic events don't have to happen for us to alter our perceptions, the choices we make, and the way we live. It can happen right now. Mark Manson emphasizes that we all have choices and we will always have problems. A problem free life is boring, unavoidable, and leaves no room for growth. It's about choosing the good problems to have that will lead us on a journey of meaning and fulfillment, even in the midst of pain.

Halfway through the book, I was curious how other readers on Goodreads felt about this book. Not surprisingly, there were people that either loved or hated this book. If you're wanting a book that will make you feel good about your sense of self, your life choices, and let you know that you're an exceptional/special person....well, this isn't the book for you. And this is why I fucking loved it. Refreshing, honest, emotionally intelligent, thought-provoking, and real....this is something severely lacking in society these days. Everyone needs to read this book, especially in the United States of Entitlement. Perhaps the best book I've devoured in less than two days in years.

Read. This. Fucking Book. And if you don't, well....I just don't give a fuck. You're missing out.

Mystery of the grumpy, frumpy neighbor

I find myself incredibly creeped out this morning by a recent incident that happened (and is still going on), though I don't know why it's creeping me out.

Tuesday morning I happened to set my alarm to get up earlier than I normally do so that I could get to work at hour earlier. When I got out of the shower, I could hear a ruckus in the hallway outside the door to my apartment. Given that it was 5:45am, I wondered what was going on. I thought maybe there was a drunk or homeless person that somehow got in the building, roaming around and talking to himself (you live in a big city like Chicago or Seattle long enough and it's easy for these scenarios to instantly pop into your mind as possibilities). I wasn't sure if I should go out there to assess the situation, so I put my ear to the door. I could hear a man talking on a cell phone talking about the stats on a woman's blood pressure. A few minutes pass. I look through the peephole of my door and see a group of people guiding my neighbor (across the hall) out of her apartment on a stretcher. One of the EMT guys asked her a question and she responded. She looked awake. I'm guessing she had a heart attack.

Now, I'm not one of "those people" that gets in everyone's business. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end and generally am respectful of not gawking when someone has been hurt,etc. So why is this person different and leaving me creeped out in the aftermath?

I have only had one interaction with this woman in the whole time I've lived in my apartment building, so uneventful that I can't even remember the details. It might have been my the mailboxes, though more likely we shared an elevator ride together one morning or night. All I remember about my limited interaction with this woman was that she appeared to be in her 60's. I attempted to be friendly with her, offering a smile or a kind greeting. She seemed very closed off though and didn't acknowledge me at all, a grumpy and frumpy looking woman. From what I could tell, she lived alone. I don't think I ever saw her go in or out of her apartment either. Very strange.

The past few days as I have noticed the apartment door has been open at times, including right now. A little while ago I could hear the sound of paper bags being filled. Two older men who appeared in their 60's walked by carrying a few bags. As I sit and type this now I hear boxes being taped up. The neighbor isn't there. I find myself looking at her mailbox here and there, looking for signs of whether she has moved or died. Her name is still on the mailbox at this point. I even Googled her name, trying to find an obituary for her (I haven't found anything yet).

I have this bizarre yearning to know what happened. I think what creeps me out the most is that she was an old woman who lived alone. Of course, I have no knowledge of this woman's life. Maybe she was loved by many and just happened to have lived alone. Or maybe she had some health condition that requires her to move into a nursing home or assisted living...or live with family members. She didn't appear feeble or that old looking to me when I saw her though. I am pretty sure she died. What freaks me out is that I keep thinking, what if that is me someday?

Granted, I highly doubt I will become a grumpy and frumpy old lady....but what if she was lonely and had no one in her life that gave her a quality life, one of meaning and happiness, and that's what made her appear a grumpy, unpleasant woman who lived in a studio apartment?

One thing I've always been afraid of (even more so with each passing year) is being found dead in an apartment while living alone. Who would know I'm dead? How long would it take for people to notice that I'm gone? What's funny is that I'm not afraid of death itself, only in how my death is discovered by others and how it affects or doesn't affect them. I guess it doesn't matter if my body isn't found for days since I'm obviously dead, but the thought disturbs me...as does the thought of the possibility of not having lived the fullest life I wanted to live during the time I was alive.

In undergrad college, I took a psychology class (Studies in Death and Dying) that had me visit a funeral museum as well as have me write my own obituary as part of the assignments for the class. At the time, I was about 20 years old and wrote about the cause of death being hit by a drunk driver. If I were to write it now, I have a feeling I would write a more realistic way of dying.....like choking to death (literally) on my dinner because I lived alone and there was no one there to help/save me (which reminds me of one particular "Six Feet Under" episode).

Living alone truly freaks me out sometimes. So does my imagination....

Pride

Pride. It can carry a positive or negative connotation. Mostly though, I think it tends to present itself in unpleasant ways in our lives.

In what ways does pride show up in your life? Does it seem to get in the way of living the life you most want to live?

For me, pride (a.ka. ego) is just a form of shame. It's the feeling of not measuring up to some high self-inflicted standard you've set for yourself. It may appear helpful at first glance if you think you can manage to do something 'just the right way,' but in the overall scheme of things it's counter-productive. It doesn't leave much room for personal growth in one's life.

I got to thinking about this tonight, as I am slowing working on releasing (or at least decreasing) pride I have around two major things that have been ever too present in my life for years. If I can't beat it, I suppose I must join it...or surrender to it, rather.

More often than not, I tend to have shame around not being the "perfect" body weight/size. I also have shame around money (ie, struggling with not having enough/living beyond my means). Interestingly, both of these issues have become uncomfortably prominent in my life even more so than usual lately. Normally, I would avoid these situations at all costs or find ways to struggle through the self-inflicted standards I set for myself around these issues....but enough is enough. I'm tired of battling with myself. I'd rather let go and face my fears. So be it. What do I honestly have to lose?

What do we stand to lose if we let go of the pride that stands in our own way? False illusions. That's what you'll release. You see, that's the way the ego works. It's counter-productive. Do the opposite and you'll have something far more productive: self-acceptance. Maybe even support and acceptance from others that you never allowed them to demonstrate while your ego was running rampant.

Stop judging yourself so much...a little humbleness and compassion for one's self goes a long way. Try it sometime. You may just discover a whole new positive sense of pride emerging in the ego's absence.

Liberation. Growth. The opportunity to learn and change in a meaningful way.

On fires and flames

When I hear the word 'fire,' it's one of warning: "Fire! Get out of here quick! Hurry!" It's usually a signal of danger, even the difference between life and death, or having a home versus being homeless. It used to be one of my fears as a child. What if there was a fire in the house and I didn't know about it because I was asleep....would I make it out alive? Or say I did make it out alive, what would happen next? If everything burned to a crisp and I had nothing but the clothes on my back, where would I go and how would I get new clothes and all the things of a 'normal' kid's life? I'm not sure if these are 'normal' ruminating thoughts for an elementary school age child, but this is what I worried about back then. Looking back now, I wonder why I didn't just let my mom worry about that for me. After all, that's what parents are there for....to protect and take care of children until they are old and mature enough to do it for themselves.

Even flames were a challenge for me. For the longest time, I couldn't even light a match. No, let me rephrase that...I DIDN'T light a match. Or do that silly thing people do where they get their finger wet, then run the finger back and forth through the flame of a candle (very nonchalantly and sometimes in a cocky manner, might I add). Surely they had some kind of superpower (skin of steel?) I was lacking, I thought. Me? I was petrified of burning myself. It would be such my luck to accidentally gain the title of 'unintentional firestarter' or 'unfortunate burn victim at her own hands.' No, I knew better to leave some proverbial stones unturned in my youth. I could appreciate a nice campfire with LONG sticks to roast marshmallows for my 'smores and fires in fireplaces carefully made and monitored by other people.....but that's as close as I got.

It wasn't until I was in my apartment in Chicago one night a few years ago that I had an urge to see what it would be like to set a piece of paper on fire and watch it burn a little....you know, like you see in the movies when the bad guy finds some incriminating evidence that can be used against him. He surreptitiously throws the document onto a burning fire in a fireplace (I never understood that one, because someone could still come along and find the remains.....kinda defeats the purpose of being discreet about getting rid of your evidence) or takes a lighter to the edge of the paper until the flames consume it almost entirely.

Since I didn't have the luxury of a fireplace in my tiny studio apartment, one night (bored out of my mind with too much time to kill, I imagine) I decided to muster the courage to light a piece of notebook paper on fire. Would it burn quickly? Would it burn slowly, at an angle (like in the movies/tv)? Would it smell bad? Would I be able to blow it out in time once I notice it burning too quick to keep under control? These questions piqued my curiosity. Keep in mind, I was the girl who could barely light a match in her youth. I 'graduated' to being able to light candles by the time I reached high school and college, but nothing as challenging as this. If the paper burned too fast, it had the potential to become uncontrollable, hazardous, maybe even start a fire in my apartment. That's all I needed: "Woman loses everything in apartment fire that spiraled out of control, after setting ablaze a sheet of notebook paper to satisfy her curiosity. Who is curious now?"

Still, it was a chance I was willing to take.