I was walking across the road to pick up a few of my kids from school last week when it dawned on me that I just may be a complete basket case. Or even worse, I could be completely, disappointingly, and soul-crushingly normal. My mind quickly compiled some of the evidence against the upsetting idea of normalcy and I was almost instantly comforted by the fact that upon examination of the facts, the only reasonable, logical and possible conclusions that one could draw is that I am either a complete dolt or a basket case. The idea of being a dolt does not please me any more than being normal does, and I do like baskets, so I’m going with the latter.
- I live in, and have always lived in, a place where the air hurts my skin 10 out of 12 months. For six months, the air freezes my face and dehydrates my skin so that sandpaper looks soft and supple next to my legs. The other four months, it’s so hot and humid that the walls sweat and my face is in a state of perma-shine, made oh-so-much sexier by my albino-esque need to apply SPF50 with alarming regularity or else suffer the blistering consequences. Anyway you slice this, I spend almost 85% of my life battling various skin-related ailments. And why? Because Canada. That’s why.
- I have an unnatural obsession with and laser focus on salt and vinegar potato chips. I can wake up in the morning just fixated on them. No matter how long I resist and hold off, I know that I am going to give in and feed my addiction at some point before the day is done, so I cave and buy a bag. I then proceed to eat the entire bag. Followed by the next week spent dealing with the stupidly sexy sloughing skin inside my mouth and vowing to never touch another potato chip again. But that just means that I wait a month, rinse and repeat. The picture of instability? I’m right here, people.
- I derive an inordinate about of pleasure from seeing just how amazingly well my lettuce is doing in the garden and how many flowers are on my zucchini, cucumber and tomato plants. I mean, really? Who the hell brainwashed me and turned me into a freakin’ gardener? I’m the one who doesn’t like dirt. I’m the one who could happily stay inside her house 99% of the time. I’m the one who doesn’t even EAT tomatoes, never mind grow them. Is this a real-life FACE/OFF situation? I mean, when whoever owns this brain comes back, I’ll keep the kids, husband, house, and housework – I accept that those are all mine. But this gardening business, well, that is just not me. Except I really do effing love seeing all the seeds I plant turn into food and seeing said food gobbled up by all of the children that I water and grow daily. Ugh. I’m beginning to think that I may not be a teenager anymore. Feck. This is very disappointing news.
- I love makeup. And pretty clothes. And cute shoes. And leather purses. And I have quite a bit of all of it. So, having this information, you wouldn’t be crazy to think that I am probably one of those well put-together types. You wouldn’t be crazy to think that, but you would be wrong. Do you know what look I pull together most days? Eos lip balm, bleach-stained track pants paired with an oversized tee-shirt under a raggedy hoodie, $3 Walmart flip flops (from last year) and a pleather purse. Yup, that’s me. Homeless chic on the outside but really quite fancy-schmancy in my head. I wonder though, for when exactly am I saving that Dior eyeshadow and at which event will I actually attend wearing high heels (please God, don’t let it either be my bail hearing or my funeral), and what needs to happen to get me to stop saving my good leather purses and start using them again?
- I will do the same thing, over and over and over again and fully expect that I will achieve a different outcome merely because I want there to be a different outcome and I think that I should get a different outcome. And then when I get the same undesirable outcome, I’m surprised and disappointed. Every. Single. Time (please refer to point number 3. and the potato chip debacle). And you know what? I will continue to beat my head against that wall because my belief that I should achieve my desired or intended result is just that strong. Now, this bit of information, some would say, tips the scales in favour for a finding of me being a dolt, but this is my blog and I have already said that the idea of being a dolt does not please me, so it shall be treated as evidence supporting a basket case diagnosis.
Probably the biggest and best evidence I have available to prove my basket case-ediness is that I have actually just spent a not insignificant amount of time out of my life in order to write this post, sharing/trying to prove to you that I am, in fact, mostly unhinged. And I’m okay with that.
And with that final thought, I rest my case.