|Struggle bus. Front row.|
Exhibit A: We're going out to dinner on a Friday night. Should be a blast, right? Wrong. I want Mexican. John wants BBQ (again). We go back and forth for a few minutes, and he gives in. Great, right?! Wrong again. Why don't we just do BBQ like you wanted, babe? Actually, I really don't want pulled pork again. I really want soft tacos. But, no, it's your turn to choose. But I reallllly want tacos!
What should be a mindless decision turns into a long, drawn out, torturous affair to which my boyfriend finally throws his hand up in the air says something like 'What do you WANT me to say right now?!'
The truth is, I have no idea. I really don't.
Take another example, after my first day of work earlier this week. The day had gone smoothly--perfectly, even. But when I got home, I just started to fall apart. Our landlord was there waiting at the door, wanting to get inside with a bunch of gear to finish painting a wall. The dog was jumping around like an utter madman, as if my calves had suddenly turned into juicy steaks he needed to devour immediately. The phone was blowing up with calls from my mom, John, and friends, checking in to see how my first day went. To top it all off, when I reached in the fridge to grab the ice cold beer I'd been dreaming about all day, the Landshark box was empty.
And I just lost it. Right there in the living room of our rental house, apropos of nothing at all catastrophic, I broke down in tears. Who does that? I do.
So that's my secret. Under this put-together office ensemble is a raving lunatic who spent fifteen minutes looking for her car keys and also probably forgot to put on deodorant. You're welcome.
If you're a little cray cray too, you can read more of my antics here.