Category: Top 250 Feelings

Maybe I’m out of my mind, but it seems to me like every time I walk into Target there trying to sell me (extremely) discounted sugar cookies in that area in the front. You know that area I’m talking about, the 105% off area that might as well be called “Shit No One Else Wants and That We Can’t, By Law, Give Away For Free, But Definitely Would If We Could”.

One time it was the powdered, mix-and-bake sugar cookies and frosting. Other times it has been already made sugar cookies. Sometimes they’re holiday-colored.

Every time, I stop and look at the “sale” as if sugar cookies are A) ever expensive enough that buying them on sale is worth doing and/or B) are rare to the point that I should be even remotely surprised a store that sells (almost literally) everything sells them.

But yet, I buy them almost every time. And each of those times, I feel great about it. You could argue, if you had no life and were so inclined, that this feeling could simply be “Buying/Eating Sugar Cookies”. And you know what? I wouldn’t argue with you on that point.

But for me, there is an added value, ridiculous as it may be, for getting not only the mix but the frosting for nearly 40 cookies for 99 cents.

That’s a great feeling.

Polar Opposite of This Feeling?: Buying cookies from a store when you’re expecting them to be soft and they turn out to be either stale or crispy or both.

You put one dollar, absentmindedly into a vending machine. You don’t even really want anything that this sugary contraption has to offer, you really just wanted to get out of your chair, your cubicle for a moment.

There’s a Butterfinger at E6 that looks good, a Kit Kat at E8 and some fruit snacks at C2. All of these are fine options, none particularly exciting but enough that it’s worth wasting a perfectly crisp, nice dollar bill on.

And then, you see it.

That bag of Fritos dangling at A1. It’s wedged in between the side wall and the next Fritos bag in the row.  You don’t really like Fritos much and you’re nervous about the prospect of the two bags both being more jammed in there than you can tell from your only vantage point. You weigh the pros and cons in your head and ultimately decide this is what life is about, these are the sort of risks your ex-girlfriend dumped you for never taking.

Knowing full well you could either end up with nothing or two bags of a corn chip you can’t fucking stand, you opt for the latter because two is better than one, in almost every single purchasing-related situation.

The spiral holder spins and you hold your breath. The dangling bag jiggles a little as the two bags are now both out of their aisle, but are caught between the side and front wall.

You got nothing.

Pissed off beyond belief over one dollar and snacks you didn’t even want, you look around to see if anyone has seen this crime against humanity, surely the first of its kind.

No one has.

Overwhelmed with rage, you violently shake the machine, your rocking coming dangerously close to tipping the machine. Then, it happens. Something in the heavens has broken loose.

You have two bags of Fritos. For the price of one.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Now having to eat those two disgusting bags of Fritos and the ensuing smell of your breath.

Frankly, remembering any dream is a great feeling, but being able to wake up and remember either a crazy or fun (or, crazily fun) dream is a top-50 feeling, no question about it.

There really isn’t much else to say about this specific feeling, so instead I’ll just tell a story about a dream I recently remembered that was both crazy and fun.

Here’s what I wrote down as soon as I woke up:

In the dream, I was some how friends with a friend from work’s husband. I should note, I’ve met this man one time and we had a fairly non-descript time together. His name is Jon and he seems like a great guy, but I honestly don’t know (sort of like how I have no idea what the fuck he was doing in my dream as I can’t even tell you what his voice sounds like).

Anyway, my best pal Jon and I were in some sort of high school/college mashup together and were chosen to head up the committee to get fellow students amped up before the annual Valentine’s Day Dance. Immediately, I offer to the group the following plan:

I will start by playing an acoustic version of The Beatles “Yesterday” in front of the packed assembly of students. Just when they’re starting to mellow out and lose interest in getting amped for a big party/dance, we will start playing “Mo Money Mo Problems” and because Jon has connections to her, Kate Upton will then walk down the parted assembly. Everyone will go crazy. Then we will dance and be merry.

No one questioned this plan. It was unilaterally approved and people were excited.

It wasn’t until I left the meeting with Jon that I realize this event was the next day and Jon not only wasn’t connected to Kate Upton (or, B.J. or Justin, for that matter), but I couldn’t play anything on the guitar, let alone a beautiful Beatles song. In fact, I didn’t (and don’t, in real life) even own any musical instruments. I was terrified.

As dreams tend to, time sped up to immediately prior to the event. Still terrified, I tried strumming on a pot that looked like a banjo to no avail. As the dance was set to begin, I left the stage (and Jon, alone up there. My best friend, totally deserted) to head back to our dorm room. In Jon’s freezer was a tub of weed ice cream which I devoured and instantly found myself high beyond recognition.

That was how the dream ended. With me high off ice cream after deserting my best friend in the whole world and without a trace of Kate Upton.

If that’s not fun to remember, I don’t know what is.

Skeptics with a penchant for shouting may point to #130 and say, “Uh, Scott, these are the same thing!”

To them, I’d say, “Uh, lower your voice, first off, and second, no, they are not.”

High fives are done among friends or people pretending to be friends. They’re primarily (if even exclusively) a male thing outside of the world of athletics.

Handshakes cross between genders, involve superiors and jobs and money and greetings. Some of the same concerns exist (e.g., sweaty palms) and some of the high five concerns have gone (e.g., one guy going high five, the other going fist bump) but handshakes are their own thing.

A good handshake communicates so much and while fleeting in time, it contains a handful (pun, intended) of factors. Sweat on hand, firmness, duration, number of pumps, eye contact, reach (that guy who has hands that reach up to your wrist is a real joy).

These are all factors and if done properly, you’re looking at feeling #129.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The dead fish handshake.

On some days, you’ll stretch in varying degrees and elements. If you’re particularly unlucky, you might crack your back as you roll out of bed, then again as you step into the shower and a final time as you reach down to grab the shampoo. Those days are awful.

What I’m talking about is when you’ve been sitting at work for some indeterminate amount of time and all of the sudden, you remember that you haven’t stretched yourself out yet that day. You reach your arms up high, there might be a slight crack, there might not be. You twist your head a little bit to each side, reach your fingers individually out as far as they’ll go. You hold that position for what feels like an eternity and it’s at the end of that often unintentional stretch that you realize, Holy Shit, that felt great.

Polar Opposite of the this Feeling?:  When you’re stretching before you are working out (or after, for that matter) and you just can’t get that kink out of your back and you’re afraid that if you go a little further you might paralyze yourself.

You arrive home after a long day. Let’s say you were at work. Maybe you had just finished working your second job. Or, maybe you just got back from having incredible sex with your model girlfriend at her incredible apartment. Either way, you’re just getting home.

You buzz yourself into your apartment (or, for you suburbanites, you approach your front door) and there it is.

It’s got that clear Amazon.com packaging and (this is a bonus for those living in apartments) you assume it can’t be yours.

I haven’t bought anything online in a while, you think. Curious anyway, you stoop down to check. Hey, stranger things have happened.

And sure enough, against all odds and realities, it’s marked for you. It’s of indeterminate size and weight and it because it’s from a site that sells almost literally everything, you have no fucking idea what magical treats are contained within.

Everything from this point out with this feeling is dependent on what is actually in the package. However, the really great feeling is finding it. You had no idea it was coming and even though it might be some logistical thing you need for (insert boring activity) it could also be an iPad or a horse or a five pound bag of Sour Patch kids (this one actually happened to me).

Polar opposite of this feeling?: The moment after opening the package when you realize it’s something like the flash light you ordered three months ago.

Of course, winning a carnival game on any spin, after any amount of money that you’ve spent, with or without a girl there to impress*, is a great feeling.

However, winning that first time, that’s a great feeling.

When I was younger, I played all types of wheel games. I once won the soundtrack for Big Momma’s House, which actually wasn’t that bad**. Looking back at that story, I can’t decide what’s funnier… that there was a carnival game where you could win CDs, that one of the “prizes” was that CD, or that I chose it.

Anyway, I’d play all the games. The CD game, the jersey game, the ENORMOUS stuffed animal game… but most of all, the candy game. Now that I’ve “matured” and don’t like to waste my money in such a varied fashion, I concentrate it all to the candy game.

You know, because you can’t buy candy anywhere else.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Realizing that you have to carry that enormous bear with you the rest of this 95 degree day.

*Are any women actually impressed by this? Why do we think they will be? I’m not just talking about winning a bear for a girl, I’m talking about when you win anything on any of those wheel games. Subconsciously, we think people (and, naturally, by inclusion the woman we’re with) are impressed by this. As if it’s anything other than a wheel with a seemingly endless number of triangled-off sections.

**This was back when So So Def was big and Jermaine Dupri was still cool. Da Brat wasn’t in jail (and was all over this album) and Lil Bow Wow as still (very) lil. This, this, this (my favorite) and this song were all on this soundtrack. Not bad, right? I know. Makes me wonder how many other ehh-movies had good sountracks.

Had I constructed this list when I was 11, I don’t think there’s much debate this would be a top five feeling (and, frankly, it would almost assuredly garner the top spot).

However, I’m 26 now and for two reasons it gets dropped. First, I’m an “adult” so a group of strangers playing a game and then subsequently winning more then they lose in a tournament after an ultimately useless, but at the time ultra-important 6-month string of games doesn’t mean as much to me as it used to. Second, when I was a kid I had a ridiculous run of luck with my teams winning so, frankly, I’ve already gotten the highs.

Now, don’t get me wrong, if the Spurs or the Yankees or the Bucs win a championship, it’ll be a great feeling. It’s certainly better than not winning but it just doesn’t mean as much as it used to. I remember when the Spurs won championships in high school and it literally made me feel good. Like, I was in a better mood. When they’d lose, I’d take it personally.

Nowadays, the same feelings have survived the test of time, they’re just subdued.

If you’re a (real) fan of a team and they win after a grueling 6-8 month stretch of games… yeah, that’s cool. And it should feel really good. Just not as good as it did when you were 11.

Polar opposite of this feeling?: For me? This.

I think a lot of people (or, at least, just me) think this refers to when a doofy white guy is trying to slap five with a cool black guy and then some sort of Chappelle show moment occurs. Well, it’s bigger than that.

Not all white guys are doofy, not al black guys are smooth. Of course, most are, but you get my point.

No, this extends to any time you’re in a position where a handshake is too formal and you need to make physical contact with someone to greet them (Note:  it doesn’t appear that this applies to anything other than male interaction. I’ve yet to see women high five each other outside of the the realm of athletics).

Sometimes, one guy comes in with the high five, the other comes in with the fist bump. Other times, one person doesn’t know when to let go of the handshake. Other times, the person wants to do a whole other dance to accompany the high five. Even worse is when you both go for a high five, but you either miss or one of the hands is too sweaty or clammy.

Feeling #130 is when everything comes together. Both parties are thinking high five from the jump. The hands are dry and ready, they make a solid slapping sound when meeting, there’s the shift towards a grip and then a smooth and easy let-go.

That’s the perfect high five.

Polar Opposite of this feeling?: See 3 paragraphs above for several options.

I don’t often participate in this sort of stuff. That’s not because I think I’m too cool (though, I probably do because I probably am), but more because I work in television and don’t have the interest in watching a ton of extra TV aside from Seinfeld re-runs and Spurs games.

However, every year (for the last 3 or 4) I’ve really gotten into The Next Food Network Star. I’m sure you can figure out what the show’s about (here’s a fun fact: Guy Fieri won season two of this show back in 2006, something that–in the long run–has probably saved the show).

Just as with American Idol and America’s Next Top Model and America’s Got Talent and all those other (fucking) shows, Food Network Star allows you, the fan, to actually be involved in the decision-making process.

This year, I voted for the plucky gal pictured to the left, Damaris Phillips (her show idea combines dating and cooking and how to impress women through food. Sign me up). As an incredibly superfluous side note, I should mention that the two clowns (and yes, aside from the face paint, they were clowns) running opposite her in the finale were so awful that it not only made my choice easy but would’ve made her defeat sting that much more.

And that’s the feeling we’re talking about. I have no stake in Damaris Phillips. I don’t know her, I’ll almost assuredly never meet her (though, she did reply to me once on twitter, so there’s that). In fact, most of the times we watch these contestant shows, we’re far more interested in the process than the resulting career (that said, I do actually want to see how she does on Food Network). However, when I watched the finale with my roommate and she won, we actually high-fived (I’m not sure if he has actually happy or just happy to have me stop pestering him to vote for her).

Think about that though… Two guys feeling actual elation for a stranger winning a competition in which they have absolutely no stake in and won’t ever have one in.

That’s this feeling.

Polar opposite of this feeling?: That (fucking) guy everyone hates winning (but hey, at least you can brag when their career flops)