Stop Trying to Eat the Buffalo 🦬

You ever think you're a Type A, pinched-ass, pressure-thriving perfectionist, and then one day you wake up and you realize that, no, YOU ARE ACTUALLY THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF EVERYTHING YOU EVER THOUGHT YOU WERE IN THIS WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD????????????

Cue me, discovering I'm Type B.

Like, really Type B.

^^^ This is me, 10,000%.

Deadlines are teeny, tiny prison sentences you give yourself daily. Like voluntarily eating a rodent sandwich next to some guy named "Tiny" out in the yard. (And being upset with yourself if you don't finish flossing in record time.)

I know some people "thrive" with them, but I am not one of them. They don't move me. They're such an arbitrary human construct. And, nothing is more maddening than MADE-UP HUMAN RULES—especially when you're in the throes of your most creative work, only to have some blowhard come by and say, "But, we must obey the clock!"

Pfffffffttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Listen, slim, go eat a carrot. (Definitely a Type A kind of food.)

You know why else I think I'm Type B? Because recently I met someone who reuses paper towels. Like, wrings 'em out and hangs 'em to dry and then REUSES THEM. And I thought to myself, "Wow, am I a fuck up. Imagine if she came over to my house? There would be paper towel crimes of the highest degree. There would be crumb towels! And "just that little puddle by the sink!" towels. And "gotta wipe the sweat off my neck!" towels. And "whoops, no clean underwear!" towels. (Ohhhhhhh yeahhhhhhhh.) There would be emergency purse towels. Oily face blotting towels. Blow your nose towels. "Fold it up and put it under the shaky table leg" towels. And, my personal favorite:

"Ran out of coffee filters" towels.

Totally a thing.

But, the point is?

I'm not re-using any of 'em.

(Is this what paper towel shame feels like? Because, I gotta tell ya, I think body shame is so much better. I like my shame to really, really hurt. Would much rather obsess over my arms.)

So, anyway, here I am thinking I'm all Type B, but then things like yesterday happen.

Yesterday I had an unexpected visitor show up AT SEVEN THIRTY AT NIGHT 😅 (might as well have been 3am) and proceed to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk at me on my porch until maggots literally started eating the flesh off my face until IT WAS LITERALLY TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT, and—despite my most valiant attempts of "well, I've got to get cooking dinner now," and "I've got an early day tomorrow," and "I'm so sorry, I'm exhausted, we'll have to continue this another time," the rambling continued and continued, like trying to shuttle a rabid Looney Tunes character out of your house.

Suddenly????????

I was not Type B.

I was very, very Type A. 🤣

Like, there was nothing relaxed about me.

I was wishing for a train to derail and run right through the farmhouse, with me in it.

THE ANXIETYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

There is nothing worse than being trapped in "other people prison," but particularly when it's at your own house.

My heart started racing. I started getting actually upset. Mad, that I wasn't being respected. Mad, at having my time monopolized. Mad, that I was being steamrolled, despite expressly saying, "TIME TO GOOOOOOOO."

And, I was hungrier than hell—a combo that never fares well. 🤣

Eventually?

I just turned around and walked in the house.

Isn't that awful?

I hate having to be rude. But, in that moment, anger took over and started driving the bus.

So, who knows, maybe that's just normal anger: Type A, Type B, Type Idiot. But, isn't it interesting how we all react differently to different things? Someone else might have enjoyed that convo. I? Felt trapped inside of it.

Relevant to know which kind of person you are.

Matters so much when you're picking your work, deciding on your next business model, contemplating your next service. You don't want to find yourself in a position where everyday you're wishing a large locomotive would crush your bones.

I used to think that I was just "bad" at X, Y, or Z, but now I realize that everything's an experiment, and some of the things you'll try?

Weren't made for you.

Like asking a butterfly to eat a buffalo.

A butterfly wouldn't feel bad about not being able to eat a buffalo; a butterfly knows that it's meant to drink the nectar of flowers.

So it does.

And maybe that's what we all should do:

Stop trying to eat the buffalo.

Stop signing up for buffalo. Stop taking buffalo clients. Stop building buffalo-shaped businesses.

That's not work ethic.

That's just another mental prison.

Because the butterfly isn't lazy. The butterfly isn't undisciplined. The butterfly isn't "bad at deadlines."

The butterfly is drinking from the right flower.

So find your nectar—the work that doesn't require a personality transplant to perform.

You don't need more discipline.

You need a better-fitting life.

(And probably a roll of paper towels.)