I make tons of wrong decisions. I honestly lost count. Like when I thought that going on a Tinder date with a guy who’s holding a baby in his profile picture was a good idea. Or baking muffins without any sugar. Or that time when I crashed another car with my cool-ass pick-up called Britney and I almost ended up missing my flight home for Christmas.
What did I read somewhere? Oh yes, that the worst decisions lead to the best memories. I mean, Tinder stories are always good stories, whether they end in juicy sex or desperate escapes via the toilet window. But I’m not sure plain muffins could ever make a good memory. Or any memory at all, to be honest.
Sometimes I try to blame fate for all the crap that happens to me. ‘Cause what’s meant to be, is meant to be, am I right?
So when I start my day by falling out of bed, I blame fate. And again when, sometime around noon, I rip my jeans by squatting too low. Then, right after I showered, shaved, put a mask on my hair and spent half an hour googling the least awkward way to say goodbye after a bad date, the bastard cancels. It had to happen.
The only thing left to do is make myself comfy on the couch with a bottle of bailey’s and the first season of Glee on replay. All of these things that fucked up my days were obviously unavoidable. It was fate. It was meant to be. I had no influence on it whatsoever. I plead not guilty. It was written in the stars (and we can’t rewrite the stars – notice the awesome musical reference?).
But was it really? Wasn’t it me who made the decision to put my phone too far from my bed because I read an article about phone radiation and infertility and insomnia and all other bad stuff that can happen to you? It was me who decided to wear an old pair of jeans because I can never be bothered to buy new ones (shopping for jeans is so boring). I knew that not getting a car insurance could get me in big trouble, I just rather spent my money on cheap wine instead. I should’ve been smart enough to know that getting in a car at 4am with a drunk fella behind the wheel could end in a race against the cops. Or that making a snow angel will make you end up with a wet bum for the rest of the day. And I decided to say yes to going on a date with this random Tinder guy, knowing very well that this could’ve been a very, very bad decision if the guy turned out to be a creep who would stalk me for another 15 years. Which didn’t happen because he had the flu, thank god for that. Is that all fate? Don’t think so. They were all my decisions (not the flu), and they were definitely not the greatest. But you gotta admit: they do make the greatest stories.
We’re all gonna get older, more experienced, maybe a bit fatter around the hips. But guess what, we’re still gonna make all kinds of bad decisions. Like sleeping with someone who has a girlfriend. Baking a plate of brownies, only for yourself. Accepting a lift from a drunk driver. Buying weird smelling cookies from a hippie. Drinking too much shitty wine that causes 12h blackouts. So take a bow and embrace those decisions. They’re all yours. They’re the reason why, in 50 years from now, we will still have enough stories to entertain our – then alcoholic and probably divorced and remarried twice – besties with.