I can’t remember ever being quite so wet while fully clothed, as the actress said to the Bishop.
Let me explain…
… this weekend gone, Mrs EBG and I went up to Kenmare for a couple of days’ R&R. We were planning on getting some hiking done, but, with this being Ireland, an’ all, that’s always contingent on the weather.
And this weekend it rained…
Like, non-stop.
It was raining as I loaded the car.
It was raining as we drove through Dunmanway and Drimoleauge to pick up the N71.
It was raining through Bantry as we started the long climb towards Glengarrif with the intention of crossing into Kerry on the main road…
… and it was Still Fucking Raining as we discovered the N71 was closed between Glengarriff and Kenmare and I took a fairly obscure short cut across the mountains, following a single-track road replete with sheep, hairpin bends, and precipitous drops, which brought us into Kenmare the back way.
Mind you, the views across the mountains were fantastic.
Only we couldn’t see them because we were in a fucking cloud.
And it was still raining.
I am so glad we were in the Land Rover with its meaty engine, 4 wheel-drive, and rock-solid stability.
Anyway, we got to Kenmare…
… and it was still raining.
Friday night?
It was raining even as I stood in the shower and the power went off leaving me wet, naked, and soapy, and wondering where the world had gone (showering in the dark was a novel experience, and one I encourage everyone to try at least once in their life).
It was raining on Saturday as we wandered around Kenmare, giggling like schoolchildren at the strange people who’d turned up for the Quest Triathlon (triathlons must be demanding at the best of times, but in that weather… oh my).
And it was still raining when we gave up, went back to the car, and decided to go for a drive through the mountains instead (it did stop for a few minutes while we were in the Black Valley, and I got some superb photos).
Sunday?
It rained for the whole drive home.
My point?
Despite the atrocious weather, I had a great time.
And I always do, because I don’t let external forces over which I have no control dictate my mood or actions. I am, as the cliché goes, happy regardless of circumstances — a natural Stoic.
And this, of course, includes other people.
A lesson well worth learning (or, more likely re-learning).
- There’s shit you can control.
- There’s shit you can’t control.
- Wisdom and happiness are to be found knowing the difference between them and focusing your time, effort, and energy where they count.
And this applies in ALL areas of your life, from your relationship with your spouse, parents, siblings, and children, to how you approach your business with its manifold challenges from economy, inept government, and ruthless competitors.
Alas, most people spend most of their time pissing and moaning about stuff they can’t control or influence and so are generally miserable, frustrated, and unsuccessful.
Bottom line: you can think about all this for as long as you like, but ultimately you’re going to have to conclude the only thing you can control is your own thoughts and actions.
You can do it now and join us in the Ground Zero initiative, where we underpin everything we do with this philosophy of self-reliance and stoicism; or you can fight an unwinnable battle against reality and frustrate yourself by trying to live in an unreal reality where you see the world as you want it to be or think it should be, rather than how it actually is.
Click here for Ground Zero details
Witheringly,
P.S. The Landlady at the B&B.
OMAFG.
She was lovely — pleasant, friendly, and…
… talkative.
I find that unbearable. If you’re an NT you’ll never be able to understand this, but when I get someone talking at me non-stop about nothing of any consequence it sends me into sensory overload. It’s even worse when I don’t know them and have zero interest in anything they’ve got to say.
It’s genuinely distressing (think of that what you will).
I try not to be rude because I know it really is me and not them, and Mrs EBG, bless her cotton socks, senses my growing distress and deflects the conversation to herself.
But if I’m on my own it gets very quickly to the point where I either just walk off (seems rude, I know, but I don’t have much choice if I want to avoid a meltdown), or tell them bluntly “I don’t want to talk to you” (also seems rude).
It’s why I dislike the term “high functioning” because it belies the effort I and those like me put into not throat-punching you with a knuckleduster out of mental self-preservation.
No lesson, point, or moral of the story there.
Just apprising you of one of my less endearing traits.
And it may be useful to know — because it’s likely you’ll get to meet me at some point if you’re in the Ground Zero initiative.
Whatever…