Yesterday morning, Husband came up to me in my studio workspace and handed me a large empty box.
“Here,” He said.
‘What’s that for?” I said, slightly pissy.
“Put all your crazy in it and tape it up.” He said, very amused with himself.
Later, while sitting on the couch, staring out at the grey day, I caught him peering at me, nose right up to the side of my face.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snapped, well passed pissy and into asshats territory.
“I’m just trying to see the crazy wheels spinning.” He said, even more pleased with himself.
Apparently, I was having a rough day.
It might have something to do with the large Library of Worries I keep inside my head. The shelves and shelves of books filled with big fears and little doubts. Like the one about the vet I’m sure I offended as I tried to explain my point about dog allergies when I should have just shut up and listened. Or the waitress I shooed away three years ago that didn’t get my joke about not being ready to order because there were too many choices. Obscure and random anxieties perfect for pulling out and thumbing through on a cold dreary day when the round about of whacky has time to get going. Or at 3am while I wait for the dog to breathe so I can make sure we didn’t kill him when he chased the dogs that were chasing the chipmunk.
Crap. I’ll have to add a chapter to the worry book about the Vet.
I don’t think the pit of UGH I fell into would have been so deep or so dark if I hadn’t started the day with an uplifting epiphany about who I am and ended it with two men, who have just managed to destroy my self worth more than a time or two, invading my brain and making me feel worthless again.
I am fascinated by the solid logic that suddenly departs as past bombs of things they’ve said and done blow up my worth. I just stand watching as they shatter my façade of esteem and find myself unable to move. I know better. I know their insecurities and their own issues drive them/drove them to lob bombs at me and destroy others but that doesn’t help as I lie in pieces on the floor.
But you know what does? Stupid humor teased at me by a Scotsman still in his PJ’s at 1 in the afternoon.
Also when said Scotsman tries to get me to let go of all my worries by using the following analogy, “You’re watching TV and you have to go the bathroom but you wait and you wait and you wait and then you get up and go and it feels so good. Do that -but with your worries.”
Um… “You can’t even watch me go to the bathroom, how are you not freaking out by getting a look inside my messy brain?”
What followed was a complicated description of a recording thingamabob, which records for a specific amount of time and then tapes over itself. He is apparently only listening to a bit of the babble and then it deletes. It must be the same thingamabob I have in my brain that immediately switches off when he says the word “microphone.” We all must do what we need to survive.
And then Husband had me say whatever was in my brain for the next ten minutes straight. Everything. Ten minutes of full on stream of consciousness blathering about every little thing that popped up in my head came out of my mouth in a verbal stream of feelings sludge. It was not pretty - but it was pretty dang funny. We were both in stitches by the time the clock ran out.
It’s a mess in there. But it’s not hopeless.
Because of him. Because of bad days propped up by humor. Because of love that teases stupid pits of darkness into rainbows and giggles. Love that stays strong even through asshole moods and sharp stabby words and random bathroom analogies.
I always thought that a perfect marriage would be just that – perfect and shiny and pretty. But it’s not - because, as you well know, I’m totally not perfect in the slightest. And my person, my lobster, is awkward and messy and loud and sad and happy and smelly and talented and smart and very, VERY funny.
Which is a good thing because that damn Library of Worries is always open and I can't help checking out those damn books!
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me