By
Mia
Timpano
I stress about everything –
including my compulsion to stress
about everything. I recently got
stressed out at work after I went
to my boss and made an argument
against a proposed technical change
to our website. We talked about
it, figured out a compromise. He
said, “Do you feel OK with that?”
I thought, “Oh no, I’ve upset him.
I’ve become a super-bitch.” Even
though – clearly – I was just doing
my job, and giving a shit about our
organisation’s user experience. I
returned to my desk and stressed.
Then stressed about why I was
stressed. We’d had a productive
conversation! Light had been shed!
Solutions had been found! The
stress was unjustified – and yet,
it lingered till my brain found
something new to worry about.
It’s almost as if I need to be
worried. If nothing is wrong,
I’ll find something to stew over.
Am I doing enough with my life?
Should I be making more money?
Have I disappointed my friend
because I haven’t been in touch
for a while? I said I wanted
to see that mediocre-looking
Jennifer Lopez film with her, and
I haven’t followed up. Before we
know it, they won’t be showing it
anymore and it will be just like
that time I nagged my father to
take me to see Jurassic Park at
the cinemas, but he left it too
late and my heart turned to ash.
How will she ever forgive me?
I have mantras. Don’t give a
shit; care less; you do not need
to be perfect. But these are only
so effective. What I need is a
silver bullet – a pill to reduce my
tendency to overthink the fuck
out of everything. Now, you may
say, “Mia, you pitiful fool, this
silver bullet already exists. It’s
called alcohol and they sell it
everywhere.” Well, cool. But
alcohol consumption is problematic
if you’re relying on it to cope with
mental strain. And anyway, alcohol
doesn’t work that way for me. It
doesn’t even get me drunk. I just
get tiddly; start loud-talking;
rant for a few seconds about why a
certain late-night chip franchise
is completely overrated; then find
a quiet corner to nap – ideally at
home. That doesn’t solve anything
happening in my life, although
it does provide me with an
opportunity to express my firmly
held beliefs about the hierarchy of
post-midnight fried food options.My dream would be to invent a pill
that at once mutes the overthinking
part of my brain, but keeps the
creative and expressive parts
intact. Has the pharmaceutical
industry already concocted such a
thing? Maybe. But I’m hesitant to
try any drug that dulls my thinking
at all. I need my thoughts. They’re
my world. And I don’t want to turn
down the volume overall – I just
want the thoughts that are fuckers
to politely leave the room. But
here’s the thing about stressful
thoughts: they shriek louder than
the rest combined. They tell you
you’re in mortal fucking danger!
Even if all you’ve done is express
an opinion about a website.It’s the people who don’t stress
who seem to have the most fun,
I think. They don’t feel the need
to achieve anything other than the
basics: put on pants; eat; go to work;
tap the grounds out of the office
coffee machine’s group handle
when they’re done with it. How I
would love to possess such a person’s
mind for a day. What might I feel?My bigger goal in life is to know
myself with a view to accepting
myself – to see what I contain
and be at peace with it. So,
perhaps my ‘pill’ can simply
be acknowledging my stress.
But that won’t turn it off. And
you know, it’s probably healthy.
Sometimes. How do you know
what is good stress vs. bad stress?
It’s such a conundrum, requiring
so much personal insight...
Honestly, it’s stressing me out.By
Daniel
Moore
If I could invent one thing, it would
be a very specific time machine that
would enable me to travel back to my
teenage years and inject myself with
a healthy dose of self-awareness.
I cringe and cower at the thought
of some very questionable choices
made during my formative years.From absurd outfit selections to
haircuts that no loving parent
should ever have agreed to pay for,
it’s fair to say my teenage-based
decision-making was less than
impressive. Need more proof?
Here are just a few highlights.When I was 11, I decided the best
way to reduce the risk of being
exposed as weird and awkward was
to shave my head but for a tuft at
the front, which I then attempted
to dye blonde. Instead of looking
edgy and tough with a platinum
fringe, I spent the following weeks
with a thoroughly lumpy head and
a tussock of frizzy hair that looked
like it had been dipped in mustard.As if to prove I’m absolutely not
capable of learning from past
mistakes, at 13, I decided to
shave lines into my eyebrows.
Turns out I’m a stickler for
symmetry, which meant I spent
the following hour shaving my
eyebrows until they were perfectly
even. Or, to put it another way,
I ended up with no eyebrows.Not all transgressions were
hair-based, however. At 15, I
saved up and bought leather pants,
because rock stars wear them and
they’re cool, right? Well, you know
what isn’t cool? A 15-year-old boy
lumbering about like a drunk bear
in a suburban shopping centre,
running the very real risk of doing
permanent damage to his man-bits.There were other teenage
bugger-ups, too. Perhaps toowriters’ piece