Things We Stopped Being Mad About in 2017 

Images via Getty, Shutterstock.

Anger is an interesting emotion, isn’t it? As it turns out, you
can’t be mad about every single thing all the time. Your body
will just say: “No, sorry, please stop! Let’s buy an overpriced
candle!” This is not something that was necessarily clear to us
prior to November 2016, but these days, when every hour or so
offers a generous continental buffet of enraging news content,
one simply must learn to prioritize.

Below is a list of things that stopped pissing off the Jezebel
staff in 2017. It’s true—our generosity knows no bounds.


Shawn Mendes

Shawn Mendes is the pop singer whose song you hear on the radio
and wonder “Who’s that?” and it’s probably Shawn Mendes. This
year, instead of recoiling, I started to enjoy “There’s Nothing
Holdin’ Me Back” and I feel fine about that choice.

—Clover Hope

Yoga

For a very long period of time, whenever someone asked me if I
liked yoga, thought about yoga, or wanted to do yoga, I would
respond by hissing “I hate yoga!” and stalking out of
the room in a huff. I have no issue with anyone doing yoga, but
it has never, ever been for me—please don’t make me
“om” and I will certainly never whisper “Namaste” at the end of
a class with my hands clasped over my heart. Yoga made me “mad”
insofar as anything really does—I wouldn’t write
expletive laden-screeds about why I hated it, but I would still
clench at the thought of say, attending a sunrise yoga class on
the beach as part of a dreaded bachelorette weekend. In 2017, I
attended my first restorative yoga class and any anger I had
about yoga melted away. Laying down in a warm room doing the
gentlest of stretches while someone with a soothing voice talks
to you about opening your heart or whatever is some shit that
2016 me was not here for. This year, everything changed. Yes, I
know it’s a nap that I am paying for. I don’t care. I’m no
longer mad and that feels nice. The light in me recognizes the
light in you.

—Megan Reynolds

The Chainsmokers

This year I finally stopped being mad at The Chainsmokers, a
popular pair of sentient Bud Lite koozies who have
spoken before
about getting into music for the pussy. Do I
respect them any more than I did in 2016? No. But I’ve made
peace with them and that says a lot. I think my skin is better
because of it? And, fine, “Closer” is catchy.

—Hazel Cills

Crystals

Here is what I decided this year: If
you want to buy a healing crystal
, fine. I honestly won’t
judge you. I have a rose quartz next to one of my plants, in
fact. Things are terrible, and therefore crystals are no longer
an object of derision for me. Who cares? Also, who knows what
they do? Who knows about literally anything anymore,
okay? If my crystal waddles over to me tonight and asks me to
call her Sharon, I would be like, “Ahh!” but then I would be
like, “Whatever, hi!” because nothing matters and it’s not that
weird or bad if you’re into crystals, as long as you’re not
like, spending your kid’s college fund on them.

—Ellie Shechet

Glossier

I spent a long time angrily resisting Glossier’s too-appealing
marketing campaign with its powder pink color scheme and
fresh-faced models—all poreless, dewy, and giving off the vibe
of the kind of girl with an apartment full of thriving, NOT
half-dead plants, who sits criss-cross applesauce in ripped
jeans on her artfully distressed velvet sofa (“from an antique
store in Cold Spring!”) while sipping whatever turmeric tea her
boyfriend (so loyal and sweet) recently brought back
from his trip to India. But then Trump happened and I found
real things to be mad about. And then I started to find
Glossier’s branding soothing. And then I broke down and ordered

Boy Brow
and really liked it. And now I have a velvet
couch, a box of turmeric-ginger tea bags (from Trader Joe’s
because I still have to aspire to SOMETHING), take restorative
yoga classes, and set a daily “intention” of gratitude. My
plants are still half-dead, though, as am I.

—Madeleine Davies

The Cash Me Outside Girl

When it was announced in May that
Danielle Bregoli
(a.k.a. the Cash Me Outside Girl) would be
charging people to watch her “vibing to records,” conducting a
Q&A, and sharing one-on-one moments with fans live onstage
in the form of some kind of “show,”
I was mad
! How dare they charge to watch a modern-day
minstrel who’s famous for nothing do less than nothing? But
then she started rapping, and you know, I have to applaud this
wayward child for embracing structure in her life, for daring
to do a little bit more than nothing. Also…she isn’t
terrible? Her squeaky voice reminds me of Roxanne Shante (who
was also 14 when she started rapping) and her hooks are often
kind of catchy? I’m not saying she has a crucial voice that’s
worth listening to, I’m just saying I’m not mad anymore when I
happen to hear it.

—Rich Juzwiak

Damien Hirst


Damien Hirst
is an artist that has made millions simply by
embodying the worst stereotypes of genius and masculinity that
have fueled the art world for centuries. His ideas are bland
and his controversial gestures are empty. I think I’ve spent
hours of my life rolling my eyes and railing against Hirst and
his successes. This year, supposedly his spectacular
“comeback,” he staged a sizable show in Venice, an exhibition
spun from a fiction of his own creation called “Treasures from
the Wreck of the Unbelievable.” I read a few reviews of the
widely-panned show and couldn’t even take pleasure in its
critical trashing. I simply stopped being mad at Damien Hirst
and chose complete and utter apathy instead. I found that I now
feel the same about Banksy, street art, and Jeff Koons.

—Stassa Edwards

The Christmas Creep

I am not a grinch; I enjoy all winter holidays, and especially
Christmas, the winter holiday of my childhood. But in years
past, it has pained me to see Christmas march earlier and
earlier in the calendar, overrunning Thanksgiving and
threatening to swamp Halloween and greedily eying “back to
school” territory—and all for the sake of wringing more dollars
from something that really can be a nice festive time, a break
in the late-fall darkness. The sound of seasonally
inappropriate sleigh bells in a CVS was enough to fill me with
a short but very intense moment of irritation. Don’t spoil it!
Don’t open the presents too early! Gorging yourself on eggnog
just makes you barf! Not this year. This year, I started
listening to Christmas music the minute Halloween was over, and
I began pondering my celebratory plans even earlier. This year,
I welcomed Christmas creep with open arms.

—Kelly Faircloth

Burning Man

A woman with whom I was friends when we were 13 counts down the
days until “the burn” each year. Her Instagram feed drove me up
the fucking wall because she’s always “chasing adventure” and
having “ecstatic experiences” and showing off her ecstatic abs
on the “playa.” As far as I can tell she works in tech or
marketing (we’re not in touch) and pays to “embrace the newness
of unfamiliar faces in a familiar land of wonderment” with
very Bay Area paychecks. That whole scene always
struck me as phony; you can’t go into the desert for one week a
year and reject material things or whatever if the rest of the
year you plug away at technocratic capitalism while calling it
“changing the world.” I always thought I’d be “#grateful for
the #journey” too, if I were making making $300K a year at a
results-oriented company (that’s more like a family) that
optimized blockchain solutions for other companies (that were
more like families). In my mind, those half-naked love warriors
tagging all their Black Rock City posts #holyshitwerealive were
people who were all about the miraculous beauty of a woman’s
body until it came time to give their employees decent
maternity leave. I beat this drum for many years. But this
year, I have made room in my heart for the possibility that
maybe they’re perfectly fine people who want to spend their
vacations in different ways than I do. Trump’s president! Why
do I care how other people vacation? I’m no longer mad at
Burning Man, I just don’t want to go.

—Kelly Stout

Wes Anderson

His culturally
white
,
racially insensitive
, cloying twee shtick has pissed me off
in the past (and I quite enjoy some of his movies but still,
any man who came up with that shit is sus; you too, Owen
Wilson). But I watched Rushmore again recently and
liked it. More importantly, I only have so much room for hate
in my heart, and there were worse people, you know?

—Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

Times Square

There are so many other things to hate that I can no longer get
it up to hate the clogged arteries of the beating heart of the
City That Never Sleeps a.k.a. The Great White Way a.k.a. take a
bite outta that juicy apple, the biggest there is a.k.a. New
York, New York, baby! Give me all-you-can-eat shrimp from Bubba
Gump’s shrimperie, or a hug from a bed bug-infested Elmo
costume; render me physically trapped in a middle school
theater group traveling en masse to see The Lion King!
I’m lovin’ it!

—Joanna Rothkopf

N/A

Nothing. If anything, I’m more mad about all of it.

—Aimée Lutkin

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