Over the few years I’ve been traversing planet Earth, I’ve built something of a reputation as a person with a cheerful and sunny disposition.
I aim to please! I take great pride in being able to eventually elicit a smile from the grumpiest person, and like to think that I spread cheer wherever I go like a small, female, non-seasonal-or-widely-recognized Santa Clause.
It’s bad enough that whenever I seem grumpy or sad, people have exhibited feelings of disbelief that I could possibly be in a negative mood.
However, I have a secret. It’s a big, deep dark one.
I’m secretly a pessimist. A terrible, dour, always-assumes-the-worst, negative, pessimist.
In my brain, I’m more like Marvin the Robot than a small female Santa Clause.
The reason I’m a cheerful person is because I am constantly surprised that everything is going so well.
For example, I woke up in a good mood this morning because last night I head a mysterious buzzing noise in my room. I quickly concluded that it was probably a bomb or an assassin robot from the future and I was about to die in a horrible fashion. So when I woke up, it was automatically a good thing because hey, I’m alive!
I think I’ve always been this way, at least at some level. In college one of my close friends dubbed me a cheerful pessimist, while she was a dour optimist. It was rad.
However, I think that just over the last year my tendency to assume the worst has become more pronounced. I suppose it’s partially because I’ve been thinking about life a lot, so therefore thinking about death. You can’t consider one without the other.
So far, though, it’s working fine for me. My habit of assuming the worst lets me wallow in my overactive imagination, and if I end up seeming like a cheerful person because of my constant surprise at being alive, that’s fine.
Let’s celebrate the fact that you’re apparently breathing!