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HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me! Officially I’m 102, but I don’t feel a day over 80. I celebrated with friends throughout the weekend (thanks for all the loot) and had a slice of jalepeno cake frosted with an habenaro-chocolate ganache.

It would be prudent of me to avoid mentioning the double-dipped ice cream invitations or the delicious organic blueberry and raspberry dessert with homemade whip cream that was delivered with affection at Market.

Crikey, now that I’m propped here at the computer, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been noshing lately. Which also conjures the delicious memory of the dark chocolate candy bar with lime zest and black pepper that Kimmm brought back from Harvey Nichols in jolly ol’ England. Delish.

Uh-oh, this seems to be digressing into confessions of a sugar junkie. Dang! No wonder the photo taken of me Sunday at the Aprovecho Stove Party makes me look pregnant. Supposedly the camera adds 10 pounds, but me thinks I’ve just done that to myself.

I’ve had a curious week post-Seminar. While in seclusion, having my thoughts reprogrammed and my brain washed (no, I did not join a cult, hmmm, at least I don’t think I did. I simply signed over my house and life savings…) part of the process was agreeing to “the rules.”

One rule was to refrain from telling stories, which translated into meeting 30 strangers without asking or divulging any details beyond our names such as marital status, job title, where we lived, if we had children or not, and especially no victim stories.

It was quite entertaining to participate in this social experiment. At first, what to say? Sputtering and stammering replaced the fact-finding dance that usually occurs early on in the acquaintance phase.

Not knowing whether someone was a doctor, lawyer, merchant or Indian chief executive officer provided a more level playground. Beyond fancy or scruffy shoes, hair flowers or belt buckle bling, we had only the present moment to draw our conclusions, formulate our first impressions and be with each other’s energy.

Oh yes, it was quite uncomfortable at first. But one of the seminar’s mottos is “Something do different,” or “Different something do,” or even more shocking, “Do something different.” So we sat with our discomfort and observed how often we were tempted to fall into story.

Back in January, I wrote about God’s Minion reminding me that while I might have slowed down my storytelling and complaining in general, I had not yet stopped telling the stories to myself.

“When you stop the drama in your head, then you’re home free,” she wisely counseled.

Intending to “something different do,” I practiced interacting with this group and made a firm decision not to tell any stories. The only one I got busted for was mentioning I had recently encountered a woman sporting a soul patch. My learning partner thought that might qualify as a “story,” but later we found out that particular observation did not qualify because I wasn’t turning myself into a victim over it (although, I easily could have done).

So I was feeling self-satisfied that I had the “no story” protocol down tight. Then, as mentioned last week, I bumped up against my own anger and boy did I want to discuss it with Groom! However, because I had made an agreement, I could not. Part of the learning process had me stewing in my own juices without jumping back into an old pattern of airing my grievances.

For a set period of time, I was not allowed to fall into explanation, share my viewpoint, or indulge my tendency to party with my pity. I could, however, express my thoughts in a journal. Phew! My pen was on fire.

This brand new way of owning my feelings instead of using the auto-escape valve by letting off steam to my partner (to him, not at him) revealed just how much I thrust off my emotions via turning myself into a victim. I needed him to validate my position.

As I sat scribbling in stream of consciousness writing, I wondered why I needed an outside voice to confirm that what I was feeling was legitimate. Like right now, I want to tell you how bad my cramps are, that I’m hot with chills, that I have the shakes accompanied by nausea, but what’s the point?

If I want to be home free, I’ve got to stop the drama in my head. Which as God’s Minion told me this morning, “That’s the work!”

By not telling Groom my discomfort and forgooing the expectation he’d do something about it, I had to figure a way to climb up the emotional ladder on my own. I spent the entire night telling myself how right I was, but even that old trick didn’t make me feel one jibbety-dot better.

That’s what garnered my attention. If hours of whining to myself in the dark did not yield a scant bit of improvement, what would? Letting it go, I discovered.

I already mentioned that when I aligned my head, heart and body, the anger was free to go. But the week following has been filled with volumes of silence. If I was going to stay in process, using the new tools I paid good money for, then I had to continue the agreement of no story telling.

What I discovered was without it, I don’t have much to say. The shocking realization of how much my inner and outer dialogue revolves around being offended, affronted and victimized in some way, large or small, has apparently left me eating lots of dessert.

When I mentioned this to God’s Minion, she asked a provocative question, “What are you going to replace it with?” I hope she meant the whinging, not the sugar.

Uh-oh, a quiz. My mouth opened and closed like a fish. Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.

As I write this, I notice myself taking a positive encounter (God’s Minion asking me what my next step is) and sprinkling it with my secret seven herbs and victimy spices for a more palatable and familiar flavor.

Okay, I’m going to say it again, but this time, please say the next sentence in the most childish, whiney tone you can muster. “Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.” Did you hear it? Wow, I sure did. Waa, here I was, content to rest on my laurels and my friend in a loving and supportive way, asked a question to keep me moving forward instead of getting stuck. Waa.

My God, I am good. I can turn myself into a victim with very little to work with.

What is my next step? As luck would have it, an answer immediately appeared in a book I’m currently reading, Spiritual Growth by Sanaya Roman:

“Love all your thoughts, even those that are limited or fearful. Think of them as small children needing your love and reassurance. If you catch a negative thought, don’t make yourself wrong for having it. Love all your negative thoughts and they will have far less power over you. If you are imagining things you want to stop thinking about, love yourself for thinking them and it will be easier to stop. Put a positive thought along side your negative thought; one positive thought can cancel out hundreds of negative ones.”

I am letting go of victimy storytelling and creating a new song for myself today. And speaking of today, it is 7/8/9. At 12:34 and 56 seconds it is 12:34:56 7/8/9. Wow, what a way to celebrate alignment and inner-Independence Day!