Overactive imagination: check. Pregnancy hormones: check. Extensive mental collection of movie scenes wherein irate females dump piles of clothes into a car and set the entire car on fire in the driveway: check.
I will be the first to admit that sometimes my first instincts are not always my best instincts. In elementary school, I put a rock up my nose to see if it would fit. It was a purple rock. Very pretty. And I was old enough to know that rocks do not go in noses. But i went with my instinct. And ended up sitting in the nurses office, explaining how a purple rock was lodged in my nostril. I had the decency to be embarassed. And honestly, the only explanation i could summon was the same one that killed the cat.
In 4th grade, I decided to get a perm. It was the 80s. Spiral perms(and smelling like you just got a spiral perm) were a rite of passage. Nevermind the fact that my long brown hair was incredibly thick and healthy. Let's chop it off and pour some chemicals all over it. And then my hair was Christmas-tree shaped and frizzy for the next 3 years. Not a good look. Not a good look at all.
Sometimes instincts are good. Fight or flee. Braking quickly to avoid a wreck. Hiding out in your bedroom because the summertime wasp that comes into the house in the afternoon through the air-conditioning vent is back.(seriously. every afternoon in the summer at approximately 2pm, a wasp comes through the vent and hangs out in the kitchen. Kids are safely down for naps. and rather than battle it out, I retreat. and he does too, eventually.)
But I will admit that many of my instincts are tempered and fueled by emotion. I Hollywood them up and imagine them playing out in my head just like they would on the big screen. The problem with that is that if i ever act on them, they are more likely to end up like a bad you-tube cover of a movie than a feature film starring Julia Roberts. Because in real life, commandeering delivery trucks and chasing someone through the streets of Chicago to prove a point usually ends up with a police standoff, not a lovely wedding topped off by dancing with Rupert Everett.*
Last night, I sort of had a meltdown. Possibly made worse by fatigue, a two year old who is sort of indecisive and shrieky this week, and the fact that the laundry that was entirely caught up a few days ago is gaining on me. But instead of acting on any kind of instinct I had, I typed off a missive to some girlfriends who are good about seeing the situation from outside, and being comforting but wise. They will not come out and say "You are being an idiot, knock it off", but they will flower it up and make the same sentiment sound a lot nicer. At one point, as I was trying to collect my addled thoughts, one of them said "Hurry up and finish so I can talk you down." And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the mark of true friendship. Someone who can listen to your crazy, pat you on the head, and tell you in so many words to be nice. Someone who, in the midst of your ramblings, will text you a reference to a verse about biting your tongue rather than flipping out at someone.
So the next time I decide to shove a purple rock up my nose and get a spiral perm, I'll message my built in special response team first. I cannot wait to see what Bible verse they dig up for that.
*My Best Friend's Wedding. I can perform a concert of the soundtrack for you if you have some free time.
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