I have spent approximately 0 seconds reflecting on what I am typing. Typically, I let my thoughts sit until a moment of inspiration hits, then I write.
I am opposite today - I write, then I think. And I will probably want to delete this post. But, I won't, because it's raw and I like that and I like livin' life on the edge.
Onward.
This blog seems too heavy lately. Here's some real life. There are several things that I am bad at.
Examples.
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Making my bed: My grandmother always made her bed. When I stayed with them, it was an unspoken expectation that making beds and brushing teeth go hand-in-hand. My mother makes her bed. My sister makes her bed. I have doubts about my brother, but let's be honest and say that he has better things to do, like admire his beard in the bathroom mirror and flex. I made my bed in college mostly due to the fact that I had so many visitors in my room (take that as you will). Now? Nope. When I leave home by 7:00 every morning, there isn't a strong enough cup of coffee to will me to want to spend an extra five minutes pulling, tucking, and smoothing anything that I won't be wearing out the door.
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Trimming my cuticles: I like short nails. I always have. Long nails get in the way and generally inflict pain on those you intentionally/accidentally touch. I mess with papers all day every day, so short nails are a must. But cuticles, oh cuticles. I hate those darn things. My twice-a-year manicure is a funny experience...
She peers at me through her shiny black bangs and says "oh...cuticle bad, yes?"
Her nose scrunches and I take the hint.
"...yeah, hehe. Um, I never cut my cuticles? I just...I'm a teacher...and...?"
I realize I am answering with questions...the upward climb of my voice searching for approval.
She shakes her head. "OK. Soak."
And then I soak. Forever. Which is why I never have nice cuticles.
Ain't nobody got time for that.
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Waking up to the first alarm: I am obsessive when it comes to setting alarms. I don't have an iPhone, but I am awed by the infinite number of alarms I could set should I get one. Some people drool over the the gps system, the ring-tones, the apps that it has. Me? I'm un-done by its alarm settings. My drive to work is thirty minutes. If I leave any later than my set time, I get road rage and spill my smoothie or any other liquid (OK, coffee) I may be drinking. To prevent this, I set, no lie, ten alarms. You want to know how quickly I can turn them off? Seconds. Milliseconds. But, gosh, that extra sleep feels like hours. I am not good at waking up with one or two alarms. There is a science to my alarms. Intervals must not be consistent between alarms. If they are too consistent, my fingers reflex to press "end" when it feels like the alarm is about to sound. They have to be perfectly inconsistent. I have to trick myself. 2 minutes, alarm. 3 minutes, alarm. 5 minutes, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm. 1 minute, alarm.
When the alarms start sounding like a machine gun, I know to stop the madness and get my tail out of bed.
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Not wanting a cat: I'm going to uncover the guise I so cleverly wear and admit that I am a cat lady at heart (was I really kidding anyone?). I like cats because they're sarcastic. Oh, you're reading a book? I suddenly feel like laying on your head. You're putting stuff in that box? Nope. It's my bed now. I had a cat from seven years old to eighteen. She wasn't very "cattish" though, and more like a snugglywugglysmooshyfacesugarmuffin.
OK. I'm done.
Nope. No, I'm not. Someone get me a kitten.
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Controlling my hair: This needs no introduction or explanation. I don't know how it got here or what it wants, but I have learned that questioning its authority just makes it angrier... curlier. I give up. My hair is the time machine to the 80's.
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Caring about which way the toilet paper roll feeds from: Over? Under? How about PRESENT.
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Knowing when to not crack a joke: Awkward encounters I have caused:
Me and a cashier at Publix.
Me and some beef-cake at the gym who didn't see the line of people trying to pass him as he admired himself in the mirror.
Me and strangers (Me: So, what's your story?......Him: Um, what's your name?)
Me and a date (Me: You wanna tell me about that theft in 1998? Him:__________ Waiter: drops plates, laughing)
Me and...
everyone.
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Being up-to-date with boy-bands:
I choose NPR over Onedirection (onedirection? OneDirection?). Can't help it.
baby I was born this way (oops.)
My father listened to NPR as we grew up and it was the car entertainment of choice right after Adventures in Odyssey.
"Car Talk" introduced to me the ideas of male chauvinism, the fact that women can't drive, and what fan belts are really for. Pure gold, apparently.
I joke.
But really, I don't. You should listen to NPR. It really is magic.
