Day 12. A song you play when you’re getting ready to get your confidence up
“Let It Rock” — Kevin Rudolf featuring Lil Wayne
It happens without warning.
Sometimes it’s in the afternoon, sometimes just before bed. Sometimes it’s right in the middle of Downton Abbey.
You know what I’m talking about: that crushing blow of doubt that suddenly makes you wonder if you’re good enough, and smart enough, and doggone it, do people really like you? The slightest thing can trigger it: A bad review. A traffic light turning yellow when you least expect it. Sun spots. Pow! You’re a quivering heap of self-loathing. (Once it even happened when I didn’t get a trophy for participation in the softball league. No, we didn’t score a single run all season, but shouldn’t we all be winners?)
You know you can’t stay like that, so you have to nip it in the bud. You must stop it right then.
And here’s how. I’ve figured out the sure-fire cure. You see, after seconds of research (read: I saw some football highlights on SportsCenter), I determined that the only way to build up your confidence is by being part of a huddle of guys jumping up and down and chanting. (Sorry ladies, you’ll have to figure out your own solution.)
So I hired eleven guys. Because a dozen seemed too many and ten wasn’t enough. They’re on call 24/7 and are required—by contract—to drop everything and come to my house whenever I text them the message Feeling poopy! :-(
They have 12 minutes to get here. Once they arrive, we gather in… I don’t know, let’s say the dining room if you’re that bent on the details… and then huddle up.
First we pray. Then I start playing “Let It Rock.” The mood changes almost instantly. After a verse, we start swaying. By the first chorus we’re all head-bopping in unison. By the Lil Wayne rap section, we’re bouncing up and down and doing that whole Arsenio Hall woot-woot hand thing. When that’s done and the music starts up again we all bump chests and file out of the room, each one of us touching the quote printed above the door. (It’s from Rex Ryan and says “Put your best foot forward. Can you please put your best foot forward?”)
Mission accomplished, we slap each other’s butts and mutter “Good huddle, good huddle” and then I tell everyone to get the hell out. The entire process takes four minutes. Okay, sixteen if you count travel time.
Once again brimming with confidence, I can happily return to the couch, secure in the knowledge that I’m da man while I enjoy the Dowager Countess verbally bitch-slapping someone. (And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean… You know.)