by Sarah Knight
• I couldn’t fit 10,000 steps into one day.
Shit happens. You got stuck in an endless series of meetings, you tweaked your hip flexor, or that darn ankle monitor won’t let you go more than fifty feet from the house, and walking back and forth two hundred times would really start to chafe the Achilles. If you’ve heretofore been anally committed to an exercise regimen, this could be a big deal—but in that case, you’ve also been anally committed to an exercise regimen. Nice work! Maybe your magnificent calves could use a break?
Or, if you’ve just gotten into this whole “exercise” thing, you may be feeling depressed because you can’t seem to establish a routine. Either way, if it bothers you that much, just carry over the negative balance to tomorrow’s goal. I won’t tell your Fitbit.
• I got a bad haircut.
Welcome to my early teens. Lacking either a time machine or an on-call custom wigmaker, your realistic ideal outcome is probably to mask the damage until it grows back. May I introduce you to hats, headbands, bobby pins, barrettes, bandanas, scarves, weaves, and/or the concept of not giving a fuck?
• My boss yelled at me.
Did you mess up? If yes, then it’s unfortunate that you work for a screamer, but dealing with it should be focused on whatever you can do to ensure that you don’t provoke his ire in the future. If you did not deserve it and you’re gunning for total vindication, first assess whether your boss is the type of person to change his mind and apologize when calmly presented with evidence of his miscalculations. If you determine that he is not this type of person, then I refer you back to here, “Plot your revenge.” That’ll calm you down and enable you to organize your response—maybe in the form of a complaint to HR, or a letter of resignation. Or just carrying out your revenge plot. Totally worth it.
• I went trampolining and the next day my body hurt so bad I legit could not move.
Well, this is a pickle. Much like a soldier who parachutes behind enemy lines, gets tangled in her gear, and breaks a few nonnegotiable bones—it’s time for you to draw on the Fourth Fund and call in reinforcements. In this case, dealing with it means getting someone else to help you deal with it, possibly in the form of a burly pal who can carry you to the car and drive you to the chiropractor. On the bright side, you probably got those 10,000 steps in.
• I sent a work email to more than one hundred people and forgot to use bcc.
Ladies and gentlemen, forget the inventor of the vuvuzela, we have found the world’s biggest asshole! No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, that was a joke. I’m not being fair. You do at least seem to understand the concept of bcc, so I’ll give you a pass here. We all make mistakes. There are two paths forward. (1) You could send another email to the same list (bcc’d this time, of course), apologizing and begging people not to reply-all to the original—although in my experience, by this point the seven people in your office who are clueless enough to reply-all will have done so already. (2) You could sit quietly at your desk and think about what you’ve done. Up to you.
• I shat my pants (as an adult).
Ouch. One hopes that as an adult you also have the wherewithal to get cleaned up, dispose of your befouled undergarments, and if necessary, tie a sweater around your waist and head on down to Old Navy for a new pair of khakis. Oh well, at least you didn’t fail to bcc more than one hundred people on a work email.
5 things you might do accidentally that are still not as bad as failing to bcc more than 100 people on a work email
Ruin the series finale of House of Cards before your boyfriend sees it
Bite into a rotten peach
Get drunk and French-kiss your cousin
Make an own goal to lose your team the World Cup final
Run over your neighbor’s puppy
• The printer isn’t working.
This one—again, straight from the survey—reminds me of my very first day at my very first job as an editorial assistant in New York City. It was 10:30 a.m. and the big scary boss-of-my-boss asked me to photocopy something and return the copies to her “before eleven,” and it was then that I became acquainted with the Xerox Machine from Hell. It beeped. It jammed. It stapled indiscriminately. It jammed some more. As I was standing in the Xerox room contemplating whether it was better to confess to the Big Boss that I, a recent college graduate, could not operate a copy machine, or to tender my immediate resignation, another assistant took pity on me and showed me where the “better” copier was located.*
Anyway, what I’m saying is—there’s probably another printer you could use. Though I also cosign the actions of the anonymous survey taker whose response to this problem was “on our LAN network, I renamed it ‘littlefuckbox.’”
• I drank too much at the office Christmas party and… well, I don’t remember.
Easy there, Tiger. Crack open an ice-cold Gatorade and listen to me close: nobody else remembers either. And if they do, the best way to deal with this is to pretend nothing happened and in doing so, cultivate an air of mystery even more intriguing than your nogged-up karaoke rendition of “Shape of You.” Then use the next office shindig as an opportunity to get your nemesis blind drunk and pass the torch.
Tedious Shit
Here we have your mid-to-high-level annoying, unexpected, and unwelcome shit. It’s poised to cramp your style for the foreseeable future; it’s going to take more time, energy, and/or money to recover from; and the Full Fixes will be fewer and further between. Luckily, if you’ve conserved a goodly amount of freakout funds—calming the fuck down in a timely, low-impact fashion as per my instructions in part II—you’ll be well situated to deal with it.
For now, though, let’s see if I can offer inspiration.
• My car was towed.
Depending on how soon you need your wheels back, you may have to shuffle a few items on ye olde calendar—and maybe even drain ye olde vacation fund (or max out ye olde credit card) to get it out of hock. So let’s survey the landscape here: Where is the car? How soon do you need it back? How much is it going to cost? And in terms of outcome, would you ideally prefer to get it back sooner, with greater adverse impact on your schedule, or at a more convenient time, but accumulating additional fines per day? Triage accordingly.
• I found out that I owe back taxes to the government.
Without knowing the details of your particular situation, I’m confident that the Three Principles of Dealing With It will apply. Take stock: How much do you owe? By when are you supposed to pay it off? Is that timetable realistic—yes or no? If you have the money now, just write the check and be done with it. It’ll hurt, but not as much as a $100,000 fine and up to five years in prison. If you don’t have the means with which to settle your debt on a tight deadline, there’s always a payment plan. If you’re never going to have those means, it may be time to consult a tax lawyer (or Google, if you can’t afford a lawyer either) and figure out your best next move. Triage that shit, and stop hemorrhaging late fees.
You snooze, you lose (your car)
I personally know SEVERAL people who have let a manageable debt (a parking ticket, credit card bill, tax lien, etc.) turn into the worst possible outcome simply by avoidance. In some cases the avoidance was due to serious mental health issues, and as I’ve said, I’m not an authority when it comes to treating an illness that could cause someone to blow up their financial life via inaction. But I am an authority on slapping some sense into the rest of you. And I’m not talking about people who avoid paying a bill they cannot afford, either—that’s a whole other pooch to screw. I’m talking about people who can afford it but don’t recognize that paying said bill needs to be prioritized above a half dozen other daily tasks, the putting off of which would not result in losing their car, their good credit score, or their split-level ranch. I consider it my sworn duty to help you prevent such outcomes, and if I have to call you out on your shit to get the job done, then so be it. No fucks given.
Maybe Google Lawyer will reveal an extension you can file
for or some kind of aid for which you can apply. All I know is, the longer you wait, the more interest and penalties you’ll accrue—and if you think the government is bleeding you dry now, just wait till they pronounce you DOA in federal court.*
• My girlfriend told me I’m bad in bed.
You have every right to be hurt, miffed, or purely puzzled, but nothing good will come of indulging those emotional puppies for more than an afternoon’s romp. Once you’ve recovered from what was undoubtedly the Greatest Shock of Your Life and taken stock, you’ll find that you have a couple of options—it’s up to you to decide which one wears the RIO crown. You could break up with her and await your introduction to a woman more appreciative of your conjugal talents. Or you could take her criticisms to heart and make some changes to your technique.
(Here I feel the need to once more underscore the simplicity that is “dealing with it.” In so many problem-solving situations, we are working within a binary—do either this, or that, to begin righting the ship. Pick one and run with it. Or pick one and handcuff yourself to the bed with it. Whatever works, Fabio.)
• I broke a semi-important bone.
Clearly the first thing you should do is seek medical treatment, but on your way to the ER (or once the anesthesia wears off), you can spend some time cataloguing the consequences and making/changing your plans according to your projected recovery time. Can you still go to work? What other daily responsibilities may be hampered by your tetchy tibia? Be flexible! For example, my husband does all of our grocery shopping and dinner cooking, so when he broke his collarbone on an ill-advised motorbike outing, we had to make alternate eating arrangements for the next four to six weeks. They’re called Eggos; I suggest you look into them.
• I can’t fit into my bridesmaid dress/tuxedo for this wedding I’m in… today.
Assuming your RIO is to appear as a member of the bridal or groomal party and fête your friends whilst wearing the official wedding frock of their choosing, you may have to resign yourself to looking a bit overstuffed in the photos, then “accidentally” spill some red wine on your duds during dinner and change into that roomy-yet-wedding-appropriate outfit you “totally forgot you had in your trunk!”
• I failed my driving test.
Same. The way I dealt with it was to silently curse the trick stop sign, moan about it for a day, then retake the test at the earliest possible opportunity. If you fail again (and again), maybe you should practice more. Or take public transportation. Or commit to making enough money that you can afford a chauffeur for life. #GOALS.
• The pipes in my house froze and burst.
As a relatively new homeowner myself, I am continually amazed by the volume of shit that can go wrong in, under, around, and on top of one’s house. That any domicile-based fail is happening in the place where you also need to sleep—let alone potentially work and parent—makes it potentially triply frustrating. As such, you might be tempted to waste freakout funds shaking your fists at the sky gods when you realize what went down behind your kitchen walls. But you need to quell that impulse and direct your energies instead to the much more urgent task of finding a good plumber who can show up on short notice.
• Recently I decided to get a Whopper with cheese at 6:30 a.m. While driving, I dropped my cheeseburger and rear-ended someone at a stoplight.
Who among us hasn’t had the urge to consume processed meat in the wee hours? “Have it your way” indeed, anonymous survey taker. I hope that after you had a good chuckle at the absurdity of your predicament, you swiftly and responsibly checked both cars for damage and, if necessary, contacted the respective insurance companies. I also hope you went back for a replacement Whopper. You’ll need your strength to explain to your boss why you’re an hour late to work and covered in special sauce.
• My best friend is pissed at me.
Is it because you spilled red wine on that bridesmaid dress she so lovingly selected a year ago and in which you now resemble a lilac taffeta sausage? No? Okay, well, whatever the reason is, run a quick assessment of what you may need to apologize for and how soon you can fit that into your busy schedule of reading profane self-help books. If you’re in the wrong and your RIO is to remain besties, then get on with it. Or if this incident provides you a convenient path toward dialing back your and Marsha’s codependent tendencies, that’s fine too. See who blinks first.
• I’ve had to go on a severely limited diet due to health issues.
Remember when I said that everything that’s going on in your life sucks exactly as hard as you think it does, and that I’ll never be the one to tell you “It’s going to be okay” or “Aw, it’s not so bad?”
WELL, CONSIDER ME A WOMAN OF MY MOTHERFUCKING WORD.
If you’re going down this road, you have my deepest sympathies. And please know that by taking a logical look at the problem I am in no way invalidating your emotional distress. Dietary restrictions are awful and shitty. They rob us of one of the greatest of life’s pleasures and are often onerous and expensive to follow through on. Suckage of the highest order.
FUN FACT: In my anonymous survey I asked “Do you hate it when something bad happens and people tell you ‘Everything’s going to be okay?’” 77.4 percent of respondents answered “Yes, that bugs the shit out of me.”
Calming the fuck down will be challenging, but you do have some fancy new tools now to help you get started. Can you plot revenge on gluten? I don’t see why not.
Dealing with it will be a combo of planning ahead and in-the-moment coping when faced with a brunch menu, passed hors d’oeuvres, or a hospital cafeteria. Besides traveling everywhere with appropriate snacks, what do you do? Take stock: What’s on offer and what won’t aggravate your condition? Realistic ideal outcome: Getting enough to eat and not getting sick. Triage: Depending on your situation, this may be the time to deploy your pocket snacks to ensure you don’t get hangry, then seek out a waiter to ask about ingredients and substitutions. Also, for what it’s worth, I’ve heard oat milk is nice.
Really Heavy Shit
Oof. To be honest, I’ve been dreading this part ever since I started writing Calm the Fuck Down—not because it’s chock-full of the stuff of nightmares (although, that too), but because I’m apprehensive about claiming to be an authority on dealing with the absolute worst that life has to offer. It’s a lot of responsibility for a potty-mouthed anti-guru, and while I have experienced some really heavy shit in my time, I’ve by no means cornered the market.
The problems I’ll be addressing in the last segment of our lightning round are among the most painful and difficult—if not impossible—for anyone to solve. In most cases I doubt they’re even the problems you came to Calm the Fuck Down for help with; certainly there are more thorough tomes written by more qualified persons than me on subjects like divorce, disease, and death that you could lay your hands on if you were so inclined.*
As you read this section, you may wonder who the fuck I think I am to tell you how to cope with your marriage falling apart or prep for chemotherapy. What right do I have to natter on about the productive aftermath of a home invasion or getting through the emotionally and physically devastating trials of infertility? Not to mention advising you re: nuclear fallout and bedbugs, two things with which I have exactly zero experience. (So far, at least. Thanks Obama!)
You’re entitled to wonder these things. As I said, I’ve wondered them too. But I believe in the power of the NoWorries Method to help you even in your darkest moments, precisely because it’s a different way to look at those dark moments than you may be used to getting from friends and family, or even from your therapist.
Which is to say that if you find the next few pages of advice brutally pragmatic and emotionless—well, that’s kind of the point.
I wrote Calm the Fuck Down in service to the notion that nobody else in your life is giving you brutally pragmatic, emotionless advice about your anxiety and stress and problems because they’re too busy telling you EVERYTHING IS GO
ING TO BE OKAY and glossing over the nuts and bolts of exactly how to get there.
And much like 77.4 percent of my survey respondents, that bugs the shit out of me.
That said, my suggestions for dealing with your really heavy shit come with the same qualifier I’ve supplied a few times in this book: anxiety, panic, depression, and trauma may be candidates for the NoWorries treatment, but they are also NoJoke. If you are going through any of the stuff I’m about to give a pithy paragraph’s worth of advice on dealing with, it would mean a lot to me if you would also talk to a professional about what you can do to feel better and move forward, okay?
Thank you in advance for humoring me.
With that, we enter the third and final phase of total shitstorms: a catalogue of terror. If the first of these sections was like easing into a warm bath, this one is more like waking up in a tub full of ice and discovering you’re down a kidney.
And although I don’t necessarily have all the answers, hopefully I can get you pointed in the right fucking direction.
Meow.
• I got robbed.
