This week I’ve got a serious case of the s’pose’das.

The s’pose’das is a term first introduced to the world via that episode of The Simpsons where the family move to Cypress Creek and Bart is put in a remedial class. He points out that he’s supposed to be in the fourth grade and the teacher responds with “sounds like someone’s got a case of the s’pose’das”.

It’s a nice, fun term to use instead of the slightly confronting terminology to describe the unrelenting standards schema that rules my thoughts, behaviour and life. In a nutshell, a schema is a pattern of thought and behaviour that stems from an unmet childhood need. It can manifest into a dominating and unhealthy way of thinking, which makes things kinda unpleasant in the old thinkbox.

The schema compels me to be as productive as inhumanely possible, often fuelling an irrational desire to keep ticking off to-do lists when the only box I should be ticking off is “relax”.

It’s especially dominant when I have days off, because there’s voice in my head drilling into me that I should be utilizing my days off the best way I can, but getting a whole lotta stuff done. Remember Brian’s mum at the start of The Breakfast Club? That voice is kind of like her, except this fictional character which exists only in my head is much better dressed.

One of my biggest s’pose’das is to be consistent with my blog posts, keeping to the Wednesday and Sunday schedule. It’s usually not too demanding, especially because my shift work means I have a lot of downtime can’t be used for socialising.  But sometimes, things get away from me. I had planned on posting something on Wednesday, but then I went out for burritos and returned home far too late to be posting anything online. As I went to sleep on Wednesday night, I resolved to post something on Thursday afternoon, following a well-earned sleep-in and a hardcore gym session. However, after doing the bare minimum at the gym, buying groceries and putting my sheets out on the line, I didn’t feel like doing much. I had a nap and woke up feeling a little more “nah” than “yeah”.

I considered doing something productive, but instead ended up bingeing on five episodes of Dead to Me, watching the last three-quarters of Double Jeopardyand sitting through the entirety of The Holiday, while finishing off a bottle of red wine I’d opened weeks ago and a small bottle of dessert wine that, by the taste of it, was bought at the very end of a wine tasting trip when I was quite sauced. I mean, I cleared much-needed space in the fridge and felt fairly relaxed by the end of the evening, but I had a terrible sleep.

Sure, you could say that the staring at a TV screen in a dark room for hours and the sleep-disrupting properties of cheap wine disturbed my slumber, but I blame a violent case of the s’pose’das for those tosses and turns. I’d not posted anything. I’d abandoned my responsibility. I turned my back on duty. And it was excruciating. So, some time around 1am, I got out of bed and scribbled a note on my hand to alleviate the symptoms I was suffering. The thought process was that even a few scribbled words was better than nothing.

Of course, in the light of day, the erratic script on my hand is quite difficult to read, but can just make out what I intended to say. And that very important message which could not wait until morning was: “no dramies, chicken parmies”.

It’s a cutesy spin on “no dramas”, incorporating rhyme and Strayn’ pub feed culture. It communicates to the receiver the general message of “no worries” and impresses upon them that I enjoy breaded chicken topped with tomato sauce, ham and cheese.

I don’t know if it’s as powerful as the wonderful phrase of Hakuna Matata, but it seemed to do me some good. So in case you’re in need of a cheeky chicken-related saying, I’m passing it on to you.