I have always hailed myself as not quite a girly girl. I detest shopping to the point that a couple
of years ago, Tammy tricked me into shopping with her by saying she’d pick me
up for lunch. I was so pissed, I
pretended to be a special spirit and sat down in the middle of the store and
started crying for my mom. No more
shopping when I say no.
I get my nails done, because otherwise I chew them until
they bleed, and, let’s face it, my hands are huge and it adds a little feminine
factor.
Sure, I like to get dressed up and look good every once in a
while, but for the most part, I’ve always kind of prided myself on being pretty
low maintenance. I’m perfectly fine with
not wearing make-up or fixing my hair—in fact, this is the first job I’ve ever
had where I actually try to do it every day.
Before, my job mostly entailed being your average granola-crunching,
Birkenstock wearing tree-hugger. Well,
there was that two year stint where I worked from home and rarely put on
anything more fancy than a t-shirt, too.
Anyway, I like beer.
My idea of a hot date is live music and a trip to the burrito wagon. If
I’m really splurging, I might by some Kendall Jackson Cabernet to go with a
Totino’s pizza for Friday night Netflix.
I’ve always been convinced I’m not one of those drama mama’s
who constantly have something to rave and bitch about.
This, my friends, is a LIE of epic proportions. Perhaps THE biggest lie I am
guilty of telling myself. A huge lie I came to realize yesterday when I went
FULL-THROTTLE, balls to the wall, certifiably, one-way ticket CRAZY trainwreck.
I want to be clear here, I’ve had my hormonal moments when
the McDonald’s commercial made me cry, or that one time the cute guy in my
Technical Writing class broke up with me, and I spent two days skipping class
and work, while eating ice cream in my sweats and watching “Sense and
Sensibility.” (O.K MAYBE that should’ve
told me I’m more girly than I thought).
Anyway, I’ve been pushed to edge of irrational anger (like
the time I cleaned the toilet with my ex’s toothbrush because he wouldn’t aim),
but never quite took a flying, double swan dive over the edge into the abyss of
insanity quite like I did yesterday. See
I have a really long fuse and it actually takes a legitimate reason to make me
blow. I HAVE reasons when I have these
moments and all those other girly girls are just being stupid and need to find
some intestinal fortitude and buck the f*k up.
Not so much yesterday.
I’m talking “The Yellow Wallpaper” almost creeping around the room, Cameron
Diaz-at-the-end-of-Very Bad Things-running-into-the-street, bat shit insane.
Before you rush to a harsh judgment, I DID have a
hysterectomy, bladder surgery, and MCL reconstruction on the same day (like a
true moron), have been OUT of my house, aside from Physical Therapy and a drop-by
the office to pick up a computer, 3 times in 6 weeks. I have read nearly 10 books, watched 2.5
seasons of The Walking Dead, play over 600 games of mah jong, completed the
application from hell (otherwise known as the Federal Electronics Challenge,
which actually was a challenge after 4 weeks of nothing to feed my brain but
helping with 1st grade math), watched the neighbor lady lock her
husband out of the house and him scream at the window for a full 30 minutes, pinned
God-only-knows how much shit to Pinterest, and had a couple of babysitters
Brian called after I did things I am not supposed to do.
I have been unable to bend over to tie my shoes or pack a
bowl of cereal to the couch, been so doped up I saw the bats from Fear and
Loathing (not EVEN kidding), and been unable to do pretty
much anything but sit and get up to use the bathroom.
On a positive note, I am pleased to report I can now sneeze
without pissing my pants, but that has seemed a small consolation to missing
fresh air, or walking outside, or just walking…or being able to take my pants
off unassisted (which is fine when you're 22 and drunk; not so much when you're almost 40 and stone cold sober).
So, you can maybe see a little bit of why I fell a little
short of Charles Manson psychotic.
I actually think I broke the world record for longest
hysterical sob-fest, and it all started a week ago when the hubster loaned me
his phone while I went to physical therapy, because I can’t drive and needed to
call a ride and my phone refuses to hold a charge. While I had said phone, I got pissed (again,
irrationally, over a phone call he missed and I saw who was calling). This was compounded Sunday when I lost a $5
ring I bought in the Grenadines in the car and he wouldn’t let me
look for it (something that TOTALLY reminded of me of an aunt who went nuts
over a comb she had “had since childhood").
Further compounding the situation was that no one bothered to do the
dishes for three days; I went to feed the dog and three sacks of garbage were
sitting next to the back door; and my living room looked like something out of
hoarders, not to mention the phone started ringing off the hook about work.
Well, I got up at 2:30 in the morning because all I could
think of (after Brian has done everything, and I do mean everything, for the last
month) during a hot flash, was how much I hated him for not doing a goddamn
thing. So, I did the dishes and stomped,
as best as a mad woman can on one crutch, through the living room, picking
things up, and I got madder and madder at orders of magnitude every second.
When he got up at 6:00, I went back to bed—unable to walk and back to two
crutches.
At 9:30, I decided to take the trash out, fell flat on my
ass trying to descend the icy mess that is the back steps, and commenced a
crying session that lasted a good seven hours.
When the poor soul got home, I layed it on. *this is to be read in your best sobbing,
whiny, poor-pitiful-me voice* “You never think about what I need or want. You never do anything for me. That ring was
special! Why was so and so calling? How much of MY money did you give?” And a
list of just about everything he had said wrong, when he’d moved wrong, and even
when he’d breathed wrong in 14 years.
I even pulled out the MOTHER of kindergarten tantrum
threats, “I’m going to my mom’s!!” Which
is hysterical comedy seeing as I cannot drive.
Then, realizing I was in the middle of the most irrational
moment of peri-menopause, I cried even harder because I had “gone crazy.”
About a week before my grandmother died, she fell down in
the middle of night, and, not wanting to wake anyone with her Life-Alert, she
laid on the floor by her closet all night until someone showed up in the morning. I’m sure, trying to will herself up. Later, when my mom and aunts told her she
couldn’t do something, she threw her walker across the room and cussed.
I laughed at the time, but now I understand. I STILL want to throw these crutches through
a plate glass window. I don’t want any
F*ING help. I wanna scream “I DO IT!!”
like my Schmoo did when she was a toddler and you tried to help her, but on the
other hand, I want someone else to do it without me having to ask.
I’m stuck in
this totally bizarre world of contradictions…and I don’t like it.
I have survived one girl child making it through
puberty. I watched my mom go through
menopause. Through all of it, I will never forget thinking,
“Dear Lord Jesus, can we get any F*ing crazier?”
The answer to that question was staring at me in the mirror
this morning—with puffy eyes from the world’s greatest cryfest.
So, please excuse me while I go laugh at
myself for my behavior, humble myself and apologize to my husband who really did
nothing but be totally awesome, eat my words about crazy women, scrub the sweat
stains out of my shirts, burn some incense while trying to meditate through
this, and rely on my sisters who have been there.
To all the women out there that may be wondering…puberty was
a piece of f*ing cake compared to this shit. And, if you aren’t laughing, you
should be; I’m convinced it’s the only thing to get a person through this.
To all the men, we really don't practice this level of crazy. We hate it too...and you sometimes. Don't take it personal.
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