God knows what I am actually sorry about, but I am bound to be sorry about something. I am always sorry. Whether it be that I am 5 minutes late for something vital like the pub or sorry I couldn’t find the Tunnock’s Tea Cakes in Tescos because they’ve been moved to encourage the impulse buying of nettle tea, I find myself constantly being sorry. And the stupid thing is I am sorry for all the sorry-ing. I blame the Daily Mail.*
I doubt I am alone. Self-help books to improve your life are still selling like hot (don’t eat them if you want to find love) cakes, the government is encouraging us all to embrace a spirit of entrepreurism to get the economy going, Jordan has written (ahem) her umpteenth book while making perfume and more babies in her garage while managing a tan and eyelash maintenance, yet I still can’t seem to get to the bottom of the washing basket. Sorry.
The World Database of Happiness, yes, this is a thing, would say that happiness cannot be found at the bottom of your laundry pile anyway, so there is one less thing to worry about, hurrah! This gorgeous shining beacon of research has made other remarkable findings too. If you go out for dinner you are going to be happier. If you are in a long-term relationship you are going to be happier. Your glass will be filled with joy if you’ve had kids and they have buggered off to their own homes, and, my personal favourite, if you drink in moderation you are going to be happier than those who don’t drink at all. That’s my girly Wet Wednesday Wine Night not-sorry justification right there!
One of the more interesting positive ideas coming from this research however is about your self-image. Apparently whether you look like the side of a bus or a spud in a field doesn’t matter to your happiness at all. So long as you think you are pretty as a picture your happiness levels will soar, regardless of whether you could star in the Next catalogue or just let it drop on your doormat.
So that’s it then. I’ll stop apologising, and start thinking I’m a fox, and everything in the garden will be peaches and cream. It is never as easy as that though is it. Show me a woman who doesn’t compare herself to someone else and I’ll show you my bank account is in the black.
It is time to stop comparing and start supporting instead. A very gorgeous friend has recently lost a considerably hefty load of weight. She looks fabulous (well done) but it wasn’t a walk in the park. If that is all it took, we would all be at it. She has worked bloody hard and denied herself treats a plenty. She’s had an egg in a cup while workmates have devoured chips. She has exercised like a machine. She looks great. How have her colleagues responded to this transformation? Showers of praise? No. Telling her she’s gone too far and looks too thin. Bollocks. That’s their issues, not hers.
So enough Go Compare and let’s have more Big Me Up. In our body image obsessed culture of over-achieving, more and more people are going off work on Thestress (real illness) because it seems no one can keep up. In the past happiness used to be a question of what’s your name, what’ve you had, reach for the lazers, safe as fuck.
Lets get back to that.
And don’t feel jealous of the boy or girl across the office from you. You are both gorgeous, and the only difference between you could be as simple as an egg in a cup.
*Actually, this time I can’t even blame the Daily Mail, but I am never going to apologise to them. Twats.