Why, hello, old me. I DIDN'T MISS YOU AT ALL.

I have to confess to something. Lately, old, annoying habits are creeping back in on me like ... I don't know, annoying creeping things. (Do you like how, when a metaphor is not at my fingertips, I just keep going? Quality, schmality.)

Are you ready?

My biggest habit is getting frustrated at people for not doing something I think they should be doing.

Ha! That's a big habit, yes? How nice it would be if I just had a smoking problem or bit my nails or something. Even a totally bizarre habit, like constantly flapping my hands on my wrists while I talk or continuously crumpling up little balls of paper and eating them (or both, which would be quite a trick), would be vastly preferable to this one giant habit I have. But no. When I have a habit, I do my best to make it the biggest, most all-encompassing, relationship-ruining habit possible. It's probably the overachiever in me.

In my defense, this habit is a CARING habit. My urge to control the entire population of the earth as if they are my own personal marionettes stems entirely from a set of the very best intentions. Put simply, I want people I know to be happy. And they often complain about things that make them the exact opposite of happy.

I'll give you a made-up example. Say I have this friend who is all, "Man, this house I live in just makes me so UNHAPPY. I just want to cry with the unhappiness. I just wish there was something I could do. But there is nothing I can do. I've tried moving the couch, but it didn't help. I even painted the den. I have explored all avenues of action. Nothing works. Not even hanging things on the walls that are from Target and who doesn't love Target. I am doomed, mostly because the house has three unsolvable structural problems, all of which I can describe to you in great detail, and these problems invoke my utmost misery. I am thus mired in a dark black sludge, the clutches of which I shall never escape. You're so lucky you're not me, because I am trapped in the walls of this house like a ... a house mouse. Wait, that sounds cute, but I'm actually feeling very devastated."

And innocent, sweet me, all angelic and caring, gets super excited, because, hey! I just thought of a solution! So I clap my hands together and then grab them enthusiastically by the shoulders and say, "Oh! Oh! I know the answer! You're going to love me forever when I share this with you: you could simply move OUT of that house and live somewhere else!"

Surprisingly enough, my hypothetical friend does not, in fact, love me forever. (Join me in my shock, will you?) Actually they usually shoot me an annoyed look and don't invite me out for dinner ever again. The last words out of their mouths, before they leave angrily and never come back, are usually something like, "Ugh. Moving out of the house that makes me unhappy ... how could you even suggest such a thing? That option is clearly impractical, because ... well, I don't know, but what I do know is that you're really irritating and need to get off your high horse of advice already. Wait! I think I can't move because of interest rates, or something! That's right. Whew. I almost forgot why but that is definitely why. Well, that and because renting isn't feasible, because ... uh ... I think because I just read this article about crook landlords. Whatever. Shut up. It's easy for you to say I should just move, because you're really effing lucky and your life is awesome and you work at home in your pajamas so you can't possibly understand what it's like to be born under a forever curse, like me."

Then the hypothetical friend continues, in a sudden bout of inspiration, "The answer to my problem isn't moving at all. The answer is excessive whining about my paralysis in this situation, the racking up of some credit-card debt, and then maybe the rationalization of a purchase of a giant fudge sundae, which I will then ingest, right before I complain about my weight. Which you also would not understand so don't even LOOK at me like that, you skinny bitch."

Right now I have several friends reading this blog who are sitting there, thinking to themselves, Oh my God, she's talking about ME. In an overdramatized, side-splittingly humorous fashion, but still, she's talking about ME.

Ha! That's where you're wrong. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about EVERYBODY. I tricked you into thinking you were special, that this blog post is about you, when the fact is, I've hit all of you this week, sniper-style! I've been on a tear!

Oh, what an awful habit. Really. I hate it. This habit makes me want to rock back and forth and grind my teeth. This habit is a demon and I would so, so love to exorcise. Lord knows I've tried. I studied witchcraft. I ate boiled bat wings while chanting, "Spirit of bat, float and soar! Bring my best qualities to the fore! Leave my flaws on the batcave floor, and please let me quit being such a judgmental ... person!" Nothing worked.

This habit has caused me such guilt and unhappiness. My efforts to help people be happy didn't change anything. People were as unhappy as they'd been before. I couldn't help them, which made me sad, and they were annoyed with me for trying, which made me even sadder (and, okay, kind of defensive). Not to mention frustrated, because FOR GOD'S SAKE GET A GRIP AND JUST MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE ALREADY BEFORE I BURN IT DOWN JUST TO SHUT YOU UP.

I'm beautiful and complex! Like a snowflake.

I know lots of people in awful marriages, awful jobs, awful friendships, awful LIVES, and I. just. want. to. shove. them. I want to make them move, snap them out of it, do for them what they cannot seem to do for themselves. Life is too short, and I panic on their behalf, because how can they not want more for themselves? How can they fail to care about themselves at all? How are they okay with just being so miserable all the time? Isn't it unfair that they just expect me to do nothing and watch them suffer? Isn't that asking too much of me as their friend? I care about them so much that it becomes a source of toxic impatience and frustration. It's bad for me, it's bad for them, it doesn't help anyone. I know this. I've tried to stop. Did I mention I've tried to stop? The boiled bat wings, remember. I ate them.

Let's review my About post and have a good laugh, shall we?

"I will tell you that I've gotten much, much better at realizing that it is unhealthy to be upset at people for being stupid, when they will always be stupid in some ways, and for that matter so will I. ... Know that I am working mostly on myself--what I need to do to be fitter, happier, more productive (bonus points to you if you get the Radiohead reference). There's a lot about me that I can work on, and I think I've finally realized that it is far better to do that instead of worrying about what everyone else is doing."

HA! HA! Oh God.

Exhibit B: "If you secretly enjoy the drama of feeling angry, you will never run out of things in this world to be angry about, but take it from me: that's not a good hobby. Think of all of the times you are upset. How often is it about something someone else is doing? I know people who fret constantly out loud about how their friend should stop doing drugs/sleeping around/having kids/spending money--as their OWN marriage/career/budget/value system falls apart in front of them. Try to work on yourself instead of being angry about what other people are or aren't doing. You probably suck in lots of ways too. I know I do."

Oh, that's precious. Look at how hard I was trying. LOOK HOW HARD.

That was me in November. And for a while, I was true to my word. People I knew complained, and I said either positive things ("Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out eventually--you're smart! These things just take time") or neutral things ("Oh, well, I can see how that would be upsetting") or just changed the subject ("Look! Cookies!"). And you know what? I felt HAPPIER. Because I wasn't getting ulcers over the fact that my hypothetical friend insisted on torturing herself by living in that damn hypothetical house. Instead I was enjoying my life, living and letting live, and it felt really, really good. I was realizing that we all have problems, that we all complain just because it feels good to complain, and most of us are really OK with our lives in general and aren't looking for solutions. I could admit that I am often the author of my own demise. I could look at how often I complain about deadline killing me and acknowledge that everyone knows that's my own fault, yet THEY let ME complain, how nice of them, and I should return the favor.

In fact I could understand that me writing a post about my bad habits is the EXACT SORT OF THING that keeps me from getting my work done. Yet I continue to write posts instead of doing my work. Because I am human. Just like everyone else.

In other words, I gave up that habit, and it felt wonderful.

Then, a few months later, I secretly decided once again, without really informing myself of the attitude change, that I am perfect, I know everything, and people should just listen to me. I'm incorrigible, apparently. (And sexy. But I don't see what that has to do with anything.)

So, look. It's time for a change, for me to try again, because I know letting go of this habit is the answer to my problem. And MY problem is the one I need an answer to--not everyone else's problems. I tried to give this habit up once, and I succeeded, if only for a little while, and that gives me hope that maybe, eventually, I will be rid of it forever. I don't know how I got in this damn house, but it's time to move out again and start from scratch. Well, not ENTIRELY from scratch. I'm taking the stuff on the walls, because it's from Target and who doesn't love Target.