Time to get rid of these pants for good.

IF YOU ARE IN A CLOTHING RUT AND WANT A SUPER CUTE CAPSULE WARDROBE WHERE ALL THE THINKING IS DONE FOR YOU, CLICK BELOW.

I DID, AND IT’S DEFINITELY THE BEST THING I DID FOR MYSELF IN  2015!

 

Two months ago, someone sent me this picture on Facebook:

 

I declared that I was done complaining.

I made it through 24 hours.

Then I made it about another month complaint-free.

And then, somewhere along the way, I gradually became a complainypants again.

I’m not sure how it happened, but the past couple days I really noticed it.

I’ve been complaining about things in several different areas of my life.

Putting my complainypants on hasn’t improved my quality of living.

It hasn’t made me money or improved my marriage or changed my kids’ behavior (for the better) or helped me drop a few pounds.

It’s just made me bitchier.

And it’s funny how once you start complaining, you are all the sudden eating Lays again.

You can’t eat just one.

And you don’t complain just once and then you’re done with it.

The more you complain, well,

the more you complain.

It’s not fun.

And it makes me bitchy.

Okay.

Bitchier.

Yesterday I picked up a magazine while I was having my 5 minutes of quiet while sitting on the toilet behind the locked bathroom door.

I opened to a random page and started reading a story.

And this is when I received my complainypants wake up call.

The story was about a woman who was wrongly convicted of killing her ex boyfriend, was sentenced to life in prison, and then exonerated 17 years later.

She had three young kids at the time.

And out of the blue, a police officer arrested her and took her to the police station.

She was sure she would be released as soon as the cops realized there was a misunderstanding.

Instead, she spent the next seventeen years in prison.

Seventeen years.

Could you imagine?

Being wrongly convicted and ripped from the lives of your children?

Missing preschool concerts and graduations and hugs and kisses and good nights and proms and holidays and well,

your kids’ entire fucking childhoods?

Can you imagine if, while you were reading this, the cops knocked on your door, removed you from your car or your home and locked you in a cage for seventeen fucking years?

Whoah.

Now that is something to fucking complain about.

And this woman didn’t even complain.

Now she’s living with her daughter and grandson and sleeping on a pull-out couch.

While some of us might want to complain about that, this woman feels like she’s staying at the Ritz Carlton.

So yeah.

Today, I’m back on the wagon.

No more complaining.

I thought I randomly turned to that page in the magazine.

But now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that article found me for a reason.