It’s not often I spill the tea. I’d much rather savor a warm Orange Pekoe Spice Blend of it with a hint of Earl Grey, while my pinky is slightly lifted and my head tossed ever so gently back. Anyhow, today I’m spilling some tea (also known as the 411, information, deets, da truth, the business, beeswax and a bunch of other colloquialisms of which I’ve not yet become hip to). Today I’m spilling the tea on how hurting people often feel about happy people. Baby, a person hasn’t smiled until he or she has had to smile for someone who has what was once had or what we want to have, and we need to be, have to be and should be genuinely happy for them.
Is it just me or is it sometimes hard to be happy for others when hurting in the area in which they are happy? This is especially so with the increasing popularity of social media. Pics, posts and timelines can sometimes cause in a tailspin. I know I’m not the only one who has felt this way, or at least I hope. I could tell some stories about smiling on the outside with a bunch of “why not me” on the inside as I mustered through enough internal fortitude to hold back tears and simultaneously saying congrats (congratulations was too big of a word to utter). I can hip you to the game of wanting to shut all the way down on people and social media if I saw one more “I’m getting married. I got a fabulous new job. I went on an exotic vacation. I’m debt free. I’m healed. I have a new house.” post. Not that I’ve lingered in those feelings, but I’d be less than truthful if I said, at times, the raw, initial real emotions stimulated by praying to come out of the negative while a friend is flowing in the financial overflow, or going to a wedding while going through a divorce, or planning a baby shower while baby-less doesn’t sometimes sting like an angry, lower Alabama yellowjacket on a hot August day. It does often sting. Not all the time, but certainly sometimes. And it appears, at least during times where this had been my struggle, that the longer the pain and the subsequent promise I’d been waiting/hoping/praying/believing for as a result of it lingers, the harder the enemy tried to get me to stop sowing seeds of sincere gratitude on behalf of the one who just so happens to have already reaped his or her harvest.
So what is one to do when one struggles with how to stay connected to, happy for, and inspired by those who were a source of joy prior to the pain? That’s a good question. We have to keep on being happy for the ones who are happy. Sorry, it’s not rocket science, even though it may feel like it at times. I have learned that in those times where I was most challenged in this area the decision to be happy, present, and/or a participant in another person’s blessing did one or two things. It helped usher in my own blessing in my area of need or it served as a needed distraction until that said blessing shows up. Both of those pushed me closer to God so it was worth it.
Will there be times where one simply can’t be there like that fabulous wedding with a candy station and photo booth I missed shortly after my ex-husband left? Absolutely. Will there be times where one tries to maintain the same support or presence as once had, but have to make minor adjustments for sanity’s (or your pocket’s) sake? Yes, ma’am and sir. Will there be times one didn’t think he/she would able to do it, say it, be there or be a part and do it anyway with trembling knees or shaking hands then find out at the end of the day or end of the night that all things are possible? Please believe.
Whatever happens as a result of what hasn’t happened yet, that internal, sincere place of being happy for those who are happy has to be there and stay there regardless of where we are and what we’re going through. Why? Because we owe it to those who have been there for us to be there for them as best we can through their stages of rejoicing and celebration and through our own personal stages of our healing, restoration or waiting. Plus, the seasons will change and one day we’ll be able to share the goodness of who God is and what He has done, and we want to be able to operate in and exercise compassion for those who are where we once were because we remember how it felt to be there. Now sip on that:)
There’s no better time than now to repost this post:)
Yeah, yeah, yeah…I hear you already. I bet you’re thinking, “has she lost her mind?” I know you’re wondering what kind of post is called “Who Gon’ Check Me, Boo?” Well, this one is, but likely it’s not for reasons you might have thought.
The infamous phrase coined by then famous Real Housewives of Atlanta star Sheree Whitfield was spoken during a heated shouting match years ago about something simple that I can’t clearly recall. But in this day and age where people take the liberty to throw their two cents and a side of shade (that’s another word for hate in a more youthful vernacular) in about any, and everything in other people’s lives I propose the we ask ourselves the question, “Who Gon’ Check Me, Boo?”
Don’t fret with trying to come up with an answer. I already have one. We need to CHECK ourselves. From the television media, to magazines, to insta-journalists…
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On April 1, 2015 I tore three torn ligaments and ended up in a big, ol’ boot. Fast-forward almost one month later as I’d had my initial visit with the orthopedist, received injections and was in the midst of required physical therapy and I notice my clothes taking on the role of a toddler who has missed his mommy for far too long. They were CLINGY! The culprit? Steroids!
Three months later and I’m the (un)proud owner of 15 pounds that didn’t belong to me before April and while yes, my foot is out of the boot and on the road to healing, part of me was mad as the dickens that it had to come at that cost. So what did I do? Glad you asked. In hindsight, I think I became obsessed with the scale. I would weigh in the morning, avoid those helpful treatments which included steroids as much as possible, weigh at night, weigh after weighing (you know when you step on, see the weight, step off and step on again?) and weigh some more. Nothing was changing on the scale and I knew that, but it seemed I couldn’t stop stepping on the scale. It was like the more I saw the number I had not seen in years the more disappointed I became, yet I still continued to step up to see if I would see it. This, mind you, is while my foot was on the mend which meant that each calisthenic “up/down” came at the tune of a grunt or sigh because of the reason I was that way in the first place.
About three weeks had passed since my last physical therapy treatment, a few of the pounds had come off (Praise Jesus!), my foot was healing and I was still randomly stepping up and down on the scale like an Alabama State University drum major during his finest Magic City Classic field show. Then the scale broke! Yes ma’am. Yes sir. Right in the middle of me tapping my toe to warm it up to tell me what the latest number was I believe the Lord shut it down so I couldn’t be bothered by it anymore.
You see, steroids and I have had a love/hate relationship at least since 2002. While I’ve had many more bouts and rounds with medicines and illnesses which have caused weight gain since then I’ve also seen my body bounce back and be rid of the pounds. This time should have been no different. A month or so ago it wasn’t. I’d never been a “get on the scale all the time” kinda girl. It was as if, for a split second, I must have bought into the lie that things couldn’t get better as they’d always done. So I subjected myself to the taunts of some digital numbers.
The proven ability to bounce back should have been enough for me. That’s my resume, my DNA, my track record. That undeniable fact wasn’t enough for a hot minute. Now it is. No more being bothered by the unwanted growth. I’ll just be grateful that I can sashay in heels again. No more huffing and puffing through my closet mad because some of my favorite Wal-Mart or Ross Dress for Less sundresses from season 2014 don’t fit. I’ll just be grateful for the ones I resurrected from season 2010 or 2012. Whether it be my weight, waiting on God, dealing with difficult people, uncertainty with the future or anything remotely related there shall be no more obsessing over things I can’t control or shouldn’t even want to. I’ll just remember the testimonies of my past and prepare for even greater in the future. So this morning, instead of stepping on the scale I did squats. I passed on a cold Co-Cola (Coke in southern terms), ate a tasty meal at Season’s 52 under 500 calories and asked for a small slither of cake at my sister/friend’s birthday dinner last night. To top it off, I breezed by the dresses in my closets which are temporarily retired and whipped out a cute little number given to me by my sister/friend Shun. I wrapped a belt around that sucker real, real tight to accentuate my (tinier) waist and shall continue to let my hips and thighs to do what they do until they get to where I want them to be.
Follow me at http://www.angelaeatstheham.com to read about Surin West and more. Your stomach (and pockets) will thank you:)
Surin West, has been a Birmingham staple for as long as I’ve been old enough to be able to go there on a lunch break. It’s been my girl friend’s and my go-to spot for quick evening get-togethers. It’s been a circle around the block waiting for a parking space because it’s that good hot spot. It’s been a “I need something light and fresh in the middle of my day” kinda joint. It’s been a refreshing hangout in the evening hours for cocktails (Shirley Temple’s for me) and conversation.
Nestled snuggly on Birmingham’s eclectic southside, Surin West is a buzzing, personably festive atmosphere for the lunch and dinner crowds to chat and chew, window watch, devour sushi and catch up on old times or new opportunities and enjoy delicious internationally themed Thai foods. I’ve sampled several of their dishes like their fried-to-perfection, succulent catfish, tender and tasty duck…
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