Analyze this, or the post that required a BP cuff and a jar of olives.

Did I mention that I was diagnosed with hypertension two weeks ago? I don’t think I did. I was. I’ve lived my life as one of those people with freakishly low blood pressure and it’s something on I which I prided myself. When I was at urgent care for an unrelated ailment (read: leprosy or some other old-timey disease), the nurse took my BP twice and failed to give me the usual high five either time. She told me the reading (something like 1700 over 20) and then hurried to get the doctor, who then stood outside my closed exam room door and shouted alarming phrases like “highest ever seen!” and “silent killer!” and “smoke the evildoers out of their holes!” My HTN apparently accounts for my frequent migraines, the ones that differ from hangover headaches in that they make me want to lock my kitties in the freezer for their incessant purring. Not really, but migraines do make me want to eat bowlfuls of olives and pretzels. And what do olives and pretzels have in common, class? Olives and pretzels are covered in glorious, glorious sodium, God’s finest mineral next to the diamond. So I’m supposed to avoid salt and smoking and alcohol and sex and happiness, the doc says, and this sucking the joy out of life will result in lowered blood pressure and an increased life span without salt and smoking and alcohol and sex and happiness.

I’m also supposed to avoid stress, which is a task I consider similar to those special kids having to steer clear of sunshine. Is that realistic? I’ve done my best this week, reducing fights (although I’ve been in at least two) and drinking (didn’t imbibe for five days straight, my longest stretch since infancy), and minimizing the glorious, glorious sodium. I haven’t had a migraine in a week.

And then my Daily Buddha-mail arrived. It came after lunch yesterday, as usual, despite Stacy getting it earlier on the West Coast than I do in the East, which makes no sense given that she’s not even awake to read it. I generally love my daily Buddha bit, the gentle love in my in box reminding me all about and acceptance and not freaking out because Stacy got her email like seven hours ago already, and warm fuzzies about being present in the moment. But in this moment I was angry; for the first time in seven days, I felt a pang of pain in my temples. Because the Buddha message was all about validation and love and sunny skies, and I get that, but it was also about accepting yourself as a good person when you do bad things. And putting that bad choice in a little Tiffany box with a bow and just getting on with it, already, because self-acceptance and a love of you trumps all, sugar! Come again?

Let the record show that I am not a believer in rubbing the dog’s nose in it when you come home to a mess on the kitchen floor. I used to adhere to such a philosophy, with dogs and boys and mothers, but I’ve since learned that such behavior does nothing but make the dog and boy and mother run and hide in the closet. Which is rewarding for a short - and so very sweet - sliver of time, one only made sweeter if your captive is hiding in the closet in some form of Underoo. I am a believer, however, in self-analysis accompanying this self-acceptance everybody is toting around like a brand new Burberry. I know I’m sounding a little unsympathetic – and quite possibly a little Golden Girlish – but back in St. Olaf a dose of self-judgment was always in order, as it should be. Life isn’t a series of after school special moments of “Gee, what I did was really shitty and not even the cat will look me in the eyes,” followed by a thumbs-up, “But I’m a good person deep down in the bowels of my soul, so it’s all good. Let's go for ice cream sundaes!”

My psych friends will boo and hiss at me for encouraging labels, but at times people are bad people. It doesn’t mean they always are, but yep, for this stretch of the life highway, they are what they are. When we subscribe to the “I’m a good person who does bad things” way of living, accountability is gone. We can simply go about our business as if nothing else - and no one else - matters. Why attempt to figure out why you do certain crummy things, and more importantly how not to do them again, if you’re a good person after all? So I cheated on my husband; why think that through? It happened, it’s donezo. It was a bad decision and I’m moving on. Really? I’d hate to see the choices she's making at 60. What about something more subtle? I said something belittling/lied/joked at her expense/didn’t tell the full story. And I know it hurt her feelings. But I didn’t mean to. Ugh. Without some sort of introspection to accompany blanket self-acceptance, what will discourage him from going through life wearing interpersonal blinders? We’re left living life doing what feels good in the moment. We’re left with Petri dishes of Get out of Jail Free cards. And no one likes to play on the swings with a Petri dish. Just ask Eliot Spitzer.

No, I don’t think people should label themselves as good, bad, mediocre, fantabulous, or any other lame adjective for their entire lives; that indeed can be crippling. Your mistakes should never define you long term. But there are times when you should be thinking about your actions and their consequences, even in hindsight, before simply accepting them as part of the beloved and accepted and most cherished! YOU. I lived without doing so for many years, and lost more than one loved one before snapping out of it. So trust me on this, no matter how much you want to buck the statement: Sometimes, this you just being you? No. It isn’t all good.