Get Pals or Die!!1
"When you are at home, you don't even know who you are." My counselor looked at the results of the oddest personality test I've ever taken, and made that conclusion. I thought, well that is a little harsh.
I went home and repeated it to Bianca, following it with a "Can you believe he said that?"
She drew a breath and said, "I used to dread Saturdays. I never knew who you were going to be."
Stunned, I said "well he told me to get a hobby and some friends, what do you think of that?"
"I think you should join a golf club this week."
I may be a bit of a strange bird. I have always known what I wanted to do and how I want to do it. When I am at work, I usually have a clear idea of who I am supposed to be. But the second I step into my house, my skin feels alien to me. Essentially, I do not know how to relax when I do not have a role.
I discovered that I needed pals to remedy that problem. I use the word pals on purpose. Friend sounds more serious. Friends you share your heart with. Friends walk you through life's hardest trials. I had and have friends.
Pals are different. Pals hang out with you, laugh with you, and play with you. Pals expect nothing of you, and relieve stress. Pals laugh at you, laugh with you, and let you laugh at them. You feel no burden to be anything with pals. Your soul can just rest. I needed pals.
And I needed a hobby. More specifically, I needed a hobby that I was not good at. Being good at things causes pressure. When you are good you dread failure, and you always want to be better. When you are bad, even the slightest improvement feels like a win.
I am really bad at golf. Ten years ago, I had a counselor who told me my perfectionism was going to kill me. He told me to find something I was bad at and do that. I fired him.
But, as I said before, I was ready to do anything. So I spent money and I regularly failed on the golf course. Somehow, wasting money on golf balls I hit into the water, hearing my pals snicker behind my back all helped. Once I hit a terrible shot and slammed my club down in disgust. My pals told me, "Ricky, you are not good enough to get that angry." Being bad helped somehow. Maybe it made me take life less seriously. Maybe it helped me take myself less seriously.
Maybe being reminded that I am a joke at some things was just what I needed. I don't know. Maybe I just needed to think about something other than life for a few hours. Whatever it was, and whatever it is. I feel better now.
Sorry, I gotta go. My pals are waiting on me.