Self-Restraint

Word of the day is eudaimonia (felicity). Epicureans thought this was the purpose of life, though they believed the way to achieve it was through self-restraint, not self-indulgence. I’ve done my best to achieve eudaimonia today in the following ways:

I’ve written the date of my hospital appointment, which arrived in the post this morning, in my diary. I feel happier now I have a fixed point to focus on. This is the appointment to have allergy tests in the hope there’s a muscle relaxant that won’t kill me on the operating table, after my recent near-death experience (and BTW atheism rocks – there’s no tunnel of light, no smiling Baby Jesus). I’ve exercised self-restraint in not asking why my allergy test is being done at a Rheumatic Outpatients Clinic in a Maternity Unit (was the Haemorrhoid Clinic fully booked?).

I’ve done my panic attack breathing exercises in Gower Street after I went to pay my bill in a café only to be told, “The gentleman paid.” What gentleman, who, what did he look like, where did he go, is he watching me now?” And relax. This has freaked me out quite a bit but, again, I’ve shown self-restraint in not lying face down on the pavement weeping and desperately stabbing 999 on my mobile phone. Long-standing readers may recall I’ve attracted the attentions of a stalker in the past, now safely in a secure psychiatric hospital – or is he? (Cue dramatic Eastenders-type electronic drumbeats.)

I’ve also not wigged out when an ancient drunk Irishman befriended me on the bus, breathing whiskey fumes into my cleavage (which is about where he came up to) and declaring me to be a lovely girl and his new best friend. The urge to belabour him about the head with an umbrella was very strong but I’ve only got a telescopic umbrella when really, for proper belabouring, you need a silk umbrella with an ivory, parrot’s head handle. After a while he got tired of me being his friend and I became an ungrateful woman, no better than the rest of my unfaithful gender and not fit to walk the same earth his darling daughters (who must be so proud of their dear old dad, what with him being a shambolic, passive-aggressive drunk, and all).

What I’ve learned from all this is that the Epicureans were wrong. The true path to felicity is watching frogs hop along the patio and launch themselves into the pond (and if frogs could talk they’d be gleefully crying “Way-hey!” as they plummet). Because joyful leaping will trump self-restraint any day.

Comments

[Loki]

Writing like this one can see clearly why you're love and adored. Seriously it is good stuff.