Palm Sunday
Mom, You Kind of Suck, but I Love You Anyway

Get Real

I managed to give myself a little panic attack this weekend. Signed up for a food service without taking the time to research the company first. The things I'll do after a glass of wine. I tell you. Couple that we the fact that I sat through church for absolutely what reason I don't know, that I'm getting ready to fly out of the country for the first time in my life, Trouble's birthday party is on Saturday, I'm cooking Easter dinner on Sunday and driving to Boston on Monday night, I think the panic attack is understandable.

I'm not used to being off kilter, I don't make rash decisions, and I don't like change. Blackstone isn't used to seeing me lose my cool. It's only happened a handful of times in my life. Generally it's reserved for big events - getting married, buying a house, changing jobs. And it doesn't usually last long. I'm a person who knows how to make a decision and stick to it, for better or worse. I will research the change in question, Google it to death, wrestle with it in my mind for weeks, sleep on it, and generally after all that, I can take a deep breath and know I've made the best decision possible. Occasionally, it doesn't turn out to be the best decision. I've learned I can live with that too. But I hate being wrong. Hate looking stupid infinitely more than being wrong. I will relive the mistakes, the embarrassments over and over in my mind for the rest of my life. When I develop Alzheimers in my old age, there is no doubt that the mistakes are the ones that will stay with me. When I forget my kids and my husband, can't remember my own name or where I live, I will still remember every stupid thing I've said, every public fall I've taken, every line I've fallen for. There aren't many of them, but they eat away at me, make me scream with frustration at myself at random moments in my life years later. I'll be driving in the car yelling for no reason and scare the begeezers out of my kids who are wondering what the hell just happened, because nothing happened, not now anyway. I'm a million miles away torturing myself for no good reason, and they're in present watching their mother act like a crazy person.

Blackstone tells me that I've never admitted to him that I hate change before. I suppose I may give off the impression of embracing change because I am forward thinking and rather unpredictable. That's not change. That's me being the same brand of unusual and introverted I've been my whole life. I want to like change. I want to be a great world traveler. I'm not. I like structure and order in my chaotic and liberal life. I spend my life looking at seemingly random and unexplainable problems and I apply order and reasoning to derive a solution. My way of thinking is simultaneously minute and all-encompassing. It may be radical or bizarre, but it does not make me a free-spirit or easy-going. I am likely the antithesis of the free-spirit. I am relentless, thorough and intense.

Blackstone tells me this crazy feeling I had of not being able to find my center, of not being able to reason or research myself into serenity, that other people suffer from this more than I do. Well, I suppose all I can conclusively draw from that is that  he suffers from it more than I do. It's just about the worst feeling in the world, to feel as if something inside you is spinning and you can't make it stop. It's like your heart is nauseous or something. Luckily, my head normally rules my heart, which for me, is as it should be.



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