I recently read that moving house is the second most stressful event a human can endure, the first being the death of a family member. Now I’m not going to argue that the prior tops the latter, as it only involves carrying a single box. I joke, of course.
I also believe that this list of ‘stress inducing events’ only includes first world problems, as there was little mention of famine, war or pestilence. But for the purpose of the following we’ll stick to the worries of the deli-queue demographic.
Now my interest for this topic was kindled by the fact I am in the purgatory that is moving myself, which in my particular case, has placed me in-between a rock and my parent’s house. Yes, as if written in stone and predicted by the fates, another twenty-something year old finds themselves back in the comforting embrace of their family home. Luckily, for myself and ‘Thy Lass’ my mother and father are utter delights (AKA avid readers) and now also our landlords. Perhaps more fortunately, it is only a brief spell in casa de Mama n Papa. Although a return to the nest has its stresses, like an unstoppable regression into adolescence, it does offer respite from the cruel horrors of the real world. A full fridge, central heating and the total lack of uncontrollable mold. This does not mean the ‘Move’ was not stressful. No, it certainly doesn’t.
I would describe myself as a man/boy of many great qualities: kindness, humour and generosity, to mention only a few, but I do lack the virtue of patience. If something does not happen immediately, I’m prone to Jim Carrey-esque breakdowns, of farcical melodramatic intent. And the process of moving is one wracked with an unparalleled need for this gracing trait. So you can imagine a man of my conditions wellbeing in such a situation, so for the better of all, I have endeavoured to discover a cure for stress. I quickly dismissed such things as mediation, counting to ten and running a hot bath as not having the needed instant effect. With the obvious choices out the window I have found myself adventuring into the bowels of the Internet for an alternative remedy, a holistic option, be it organic or demonic.
After consciously sidestepping yoga, I simply refuse to sit on the floor, mat or no mat, of which you have to source yourself, may I add. I have also swiftly decided against ‘crystals’, because other than the meth variation, I’ve heard few success stories. On other inquiries it seems laudanum is illegal and somewhat hard to come by and its modern equivalent is far less glamorous. Growing increasingly stressed about being stressed, I was losing hope when I happened across something called a ‘Rage Room’.
Originally conceived around a decade ago in urban Japan, it’s a rather simple concept; you pay, to smash $%!t up. That’s it. No, I’m not a neurologist and yes, I know nothing of the chemical reaction created when smashing a sink basin with a cement hammer or knocking fine china for six with a lead pipe. It makes sense, even if not scientific. After all I don’t deal in facts I deal in truths, and I am sure it is simply a case of human repression being unearthed and let loose, like some kind of rage enema. Now this smashing business plan clearly works as they’ve popped up across the world with venues in Buenos Aires, Dallas and Beijing. There’s a Toronto branch offering 45 minutes of destruction therapy for the humble price of $19.99.
You can see the attraction, it probably even prevents crime, perhaps this is exactly what York needs, and maybe I’m the man to sell it to them. I’d be a hero, the saviour of the city. All I’d need is an empty shop, some breakables, and of course, a witty name. How about – “Break Room: Don’t get stressed get smashed!” This is all starting to sound very plausible and even more importantly: profitable.
I could take one of the empty shops on Coney Street, just somewhere small, to get started. With the western world on the brink of collapse, it won’t be long until bad tempered Britons are queuing round the corner. Soon to meet demand I’ll enforce a by appointment only policy, I’d be pre-booked for months in advance. With all this trade I will need to expand, take on a larger premises, the old BHS space would make wonderful wrecking rooms.
There I will be, the broken cup king of the city, sat atop a mountain of porcelain rubble, on a throne made of smashed crockery, laughing manically. “Wait what do you mean there’s a delay in proceedings? What paper work’s missing? The council are building what down the road? How much? And that’s just the legal fee?” This is all getting very stressful, well luckily I own the city’s premier stress relief company. “What do you mean I haven’t booked? A five month waiting list?” Screw it; I’ll just buy the bloody crystals.
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