Tag Archives: thoughts

A Not-So-Super Power

anxiety

A little conversation with a friend/fellow blogger last night sparked a realization that we share a pretty sweet superpower. I mean, this ability actually allows us to make things happen….with our minds.

More people possess this power than some may think. Your mother, brother, sister, alcoholic uncle, hell – maybe even YOU!

That’s right boys and girls, no cape or pair of tights needed for this one! I can do this with my eyes closed! In my pajamas! At work! While drinkin’ a beer! In the shower! While crying into a tub of froyo!

It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s…

anxiety girl

 

 

 

Not what you were expecting, eh? Well not every superpower is so glamorous, ya know.

Suffering from anxiety makes me feel a little crazy, but then I take a deep breath and remember I’m not the only one who thinks that ringing in her ears is every single person she knows saying something bad about her. I’ve even tried that whole “relax, stop giving a sh*t” thing, but yeah, that doesn’t work.

When I began dating my (now) husband, I was head over heels from the start. He was intelligent, hilarious, a very fine musician, and a bonus, extremely good-looking. But I wanted to, uh, “keep my cool”. Not seem clingy, ya know? I wanted to look all cool and stuff. If only he could have seen me tearing my own thumbs away from my phone’s keyboard, I wouldn’t have looked all cute and mysterious. Having a pep talk with yourself while in your pajamas – and probably watching a Lifetime movie – doesn’t file under either “cute” nor “mysterious” in my book. I wanted so badly to see him, all the time, but knew if he felt the same he’d contact me. And he always did. (And no, I don’t mean to say the man should do all of the work – in this scenario, he worked nights as a bartender, so I avoided “bothering” him while at work. But that’s another issue for another post!)

Anyway, my friend Sarah and I spent a lot of time together during the entire courting stage, and I have to thank her for not bashing her head against a wall for all the times she listened to my lavish stories.

Me: “I texted Joe, and he hasn’t texted me back yet. It’s been like, two hours.”

Sarah: “Dude, maybe he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s at work. Maybe he’s watching a movie.”

Me: “No, no he must have met someone else. His house must be on fire and he’s locked inside. Should we go save him? Maybe he left the country. His car must be broken down in a remote area with no cell service. Maybe his phone died. Someone stole his phone! OH GOD HE WAS ROBBED AND MURDERED!”

Sarah: “I really dislike you sometimes.”

Good thing I already roped him into marrying me. Love you, Joe. 🙂

On a podcast over at Peter DeWolf, Peter and ChowderHead discuss women, and expressing emotions; along the way something is mentioned about being the “writerly” type and the advantages and disadvantages that brings to the table in a relationship. For me, being a writer suffering from anxiety is like being that bull in that china shop. Every single thing I look at and listen to becomes a story in my head, ranging anywhere from mild to downright insane. Good material, I guess. ::sigh::

I wish the inside of my head looked as cool as my man Poe's.

I wish the inside of my head looked as cool as my man Poe’s.

 

But like I said before: I have the ability to put this power to use any time, any where. Like that time we flew to Disneyworld and I sipped away on my Jack & Diet while in my mind the plane malfunctioned and nosedived into the ocean and Joe and I said our romantic goodbyes and everyone attended my funeral, even that girl I hate, any my mom said something really nice, and everyone cried, then they buried me WHEN I SPECIFICALLY SAID I WANTED TO BE CREMATED. Ahem.

Some days I’ll be on an elevator at work and picture my entire day coming to a halt because I’m stuck for hours on the damn thing. I even consider how bad it would suck, depending on the temperature in there.

Some nights I’m on the train or walking to my car and I keep my phone at the ready in case I’m mugged or an attempted rape occurs. But that’s because these things really happen, because the world sucks sometimes, and it’s a good thing to be alert in these situations.

So would anyone else like to reveal themselves? Don’t be shy. We’re just extra special.

 

 

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Pessimistic Predictions

fearofdeath

wikiHow

When Joe and I were planning our Disney World vacation/honeymoon (finally!), obviously I was excited. We booked the flight, the hotel, the whole shebang just three weeks before we were to embark on our magical journey to The Happiest Place On Earth. So while most people, immersed in such a scenario, are fidgeting with excitement at their work desks, planning every vacation day out in their minds…what was I doing?

I was picturing a shoelace caught in an escalator and me suddenly legless, four-car pileups on the way to work, a freak explosion erupting in my face while cooking dinner, murdered while fumbling for keys outside a dark house….

bad news,

bad news,

bad.

news.

Disney and death don’t exactly mesh together.

I held my breath as we boarded our flight from Philadelphia to Orlando, right by the airplane wing.

“Can you assist in an emergency?” the flight attendant asked the few of us seated in this area. Each one of us was required to call out an individual “yes”.

Then I was asked if I was at least fifteen, since that is how old you have to be to assist.

I stared while she demonstrated how to make use of the oxygen mask, the life vest, the seatbelt. When all was said and done I ordered a Jack and Coke.

Once we’d landed and made it out and to the resort, I breathed a sigh of relief and let Joe in on how crazy I was being. He laughed and told me not to worry. We had an amazing time.

But it isn’t just vacation, you see. At any given moment my brain will shoot out the sunlight and bring on the darkness, only it most enjoys playing target practice when I’m looking forward to something.

The only comfort I find when the scary kicks in is in thinking: how likely would it be that I am predicting my own death, right before it happens? Then surely I have some sort of powers!

Perhaps it’s just all that time I spend watching the ID channel, and writing about the macabre. Either way, one of these days my prediction will be right, but that’s okay. We all gotta go some time, so let’s make the most of this crazy life.

Does anyone else find their brains churning out such unwanted scenarios?

Oh, and check this out.

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How do you make a tissue dance?

dancing tissue

Come ooooooon. I know you know. I also know you still pick your nose, when you’re alone (or you think you’re alone, AKA in your car where everyone can still see through the windows yet you think you’re under some sort of invisibility cloak), trying to reach that stubborn one that just can’t be removed the socially acceptable way, blown from your snout directly into a tissue that is then balled up and shoved into the pocket of your khakis.

As I sit here, still in my Grinch pajama pants and one of Joe’s green t shirts, my love greeted me with a good morning kiss and then looked me up and down (obviously drinking in my beauty), when suddenly he parted his lips and uttered,

“You’re in all green! You look like a big boogie!”

Thank you, for that (mature) “compliment”.

So after I told him to shut up, I got to thinking about little kids, and how they’ll pick their nose no matter who’s looking; they own that shit, they dig for that buried treasure like it’s nobody’s business, and to them, it isn’t.

“F*ck off man, I’m pickin’ my nose here. Oh, you’re gonna keep lookin’ anyway? Here, I’ll EAT it then. How ya like that?”

noah-picking-nose

Now I can honestly say (from what I remember) I never ate my boogers as a kid. They just never looked appetizing to me. Do children do this for lack of a better place to put them? If you don’t  have a tissue they can be pretty difficult to get rid of. It’s like that little piece of plastic shopping bag that rips off and sticks to your finger, and no matter how violently you wave your hand around in the air, that thing won’t come off. 

My solution as a kid? Wipe it under your seat. I know what you’re thinking, I’m disgusting!

But I like to think I was a genius. Ahead of my time, I think. Under couches. Under the car seat. Hey, at least I had the courtesy to wipe it where no one would notice. If my mother is reading this and never knew, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you won’t find anything under your current vehicle or couch cushions. Those items I used as my personal giant tissue are long gone.

But hey, nowadays I do it the grown-up way and blow them into a tissue, or wipe them into a tissue if they’re difficult to get at. I even wash my hands after. And I’ll only do this while driving if it’s dark outside. I have manners.

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