It's been a while since I've blogged...yes, I know this. Life happens, and that's what I love. Writing is a passion and release, but it never takes the place of life happening.
So, let's just dive head first in to this new post of mine, shall we?
Mmmmmmkkkkkkk.....
*deep, heavy sigh followed by shoulders dropping*
I'm sure, like me, you've done something in your life that you're not proud of doing. Personally, I can't count how many things I've done that I'm not proud of, because there have been MANY. I've said unpleasant things to the people I love. I've smarted off at co-workers for no reason. I've danced like no one was watching----but, unfortunately, they were. I'm often reminded of these incidents when I'm acting a fool. Today was no different. I was in full FOOL force, bright and early.
Anyway, today's post takes us back to July of 2015. Follow me, if you will...
K and I were trying to sell our house in A-Town so we could move to one out in the country. We had worked very very very hard to be sure everything looked perfect. I had tried to sell this house TWO OTHER TIMES before marrying K, so my hopes were not high. I just chalked it up to the fact that God apparently needed me to stay in THIS house in THIS town. Hmmmm....
Anyway, we had had the house on the market for approximately a month when we got an offer. AN OFFER, FOLKS. Someone wanted to buy the house, and they were serious! The call from the realtor regarding the offer came at a terrible time, however. We were literally trying to load the truck to go spend a few days with Kirk's family in New Mexico.
To say I was already stressed out would be an understatement. K always jokes and says, "Before I met you, I only had to worry about me. I spent money on anything I wanted, I lived rent-free in an apartment, I could keep the thermostat on 64 year-round, and I could pack up and go anywhere on a minute's notice. I used to make fun of my sister when she'd roll up somewhere late and with an entire Suburban filled to the top with stuff for a short stay. Now, I have a wife, 3 kids, and animals to worry about--and, I can't seem to go anywhere without planning for a week and taking twice as long to get there. I have literally become my sister. Oh, and I've compromised on the thermostat setting, too."
Thanks, K... :)
So, I found myself standing in the middle of the garage talking to the realtor. I was checking numbers in my head, stressing over timing (we had not really picked a house for ourselves yet), and worrying that MAYBE I wasn't supposed to leave A-Town. Ugh!
I hung up the phone and, wide-eyed and freaked out, walked back in the house to the downstairs bathroom to finish painting my face (putting on makeup). Follow me here, if you will: My hair was in some messy-bun-meets-bed-head up do. I had on a white tank top, no bra (oops), purple polka-dot pajama pants, and flip flops. I was the epitome of a mess, and not a hot one either. I was applying mascara to one eye when K came blasting through the garage door, asking where this was, where that was, and how long it would be before I was ready to rock & roll outta there.
To this day, I'm not quite sure what snapped inside of me. It could've been one of a million different things, but at that very moment, I snapped. One eye (the one without mascara) began twitching, and I whipped around to say, "I don't know! Why are you in here being so demanding?! Give me a d**n minute!!" K just looked at me with a perplexed look, turned around, and walked back out in to the garage.
That set my inner beast off even more. How dare he walk out on this conversation when I'm the one who is entitled to the dramatic exit?!?
At this point I was L-I-V-I-D and not really sure why. He and I exchanged some heated words, and he grabbed his truck keys as if he meant to drive off or something stupid like that. Ugh. Men! Well, the truck was in the driveway, so he had to walk a few feet. As I watched him climb up in to the truck, I went completely over the edge.
We are talking STRAIGHT off of the crazy cliff with a decent running head start.
I'm fairly certain my eyes turned a scary shade of black, and my head spun...
My first instinct, for whatever reason, was to grab a flip flop off of my foot. K, at this point, had started the truck and was sitting behind the wheel watching me through the windshield. Out of complete rage, I took that flip flop and threw it as hard and as far as I could.
Do you know what it did?!?!? It hit the ceiling of the garage and fell about 2 feet in front of me.
Holy smokes.
I was sporting straight psycho now.
My eye began to twitch more, and I suddenly found myself running toward the truck with the flip flop in my hand, like it was a sword or something. I glared at K through that windshield, and I commenced to beating the hood of his truck with the flip flop. I beat it fast, furiously, and as hard as I could with that flimsy object all the way from the big front grill to the driver's side door, all the while yelling obscenities and flailing like a banshee.
Timeout: So, here I am, looking like a mess, one flip flop on and one in my hand, screaming and cursing. My oldest C happened to hear the ruckus from the kitchen, and she came out to see what in the wild-wild-world-of-sports was going on. I can't remember it completely, but I'm sure when I saw her peek out of the garage door, I growled something like, "GO. BACK. INSIDE." Let's just say she quickly did and slammed the garage door like she was keeping out some form of evil.
Ok, so like I said, I had beat the hood of the truck up to the driver's side door with said flip flop.
K was just calmly watching me the whole time. He didn't make a move or say a word.
THEN, I opened the driver's side door. There K sat. He didn't dare move, and his eyes started bugging out a little in disbelieve. His sweet bride was poised with a flip fop, a messy-bun-meets-bed-head that was now a sloppy mess of red waves, her ta-ta's (not being harnessed by a bra) which were unfortunately out of the tank top a bit, and "that look" in her eyes...
Now, I did pause for a millisecond and consider that if I did, in fact, beat K to death with this flip flop, that I'd be headed to the county jail where I actually worked. No good. Very bad idea. Not necessarily worth the bond money and social media photos. Don't need the co-workers knowing I was a hot-headed freak. Oh, and the charge of Assault Causing Bodily Injury/Family Violence, a Felony, wasn't tempting either.
So during that millisecond, I chose to do something else. I took the flip flop and commenced to beating the steering wheel, steering column, and complete inside of the driver's side door, including the window. I used that flip flop to beat things like it was my last line of defense. After I felt the driver's side door had suffered enough, I closed it and walked back in to the garage, not looking back. I honestly didn't want to see K's expression.
Feeling like I had not fully unleashed the anger inside me, I dropped to my knees, then laid down on that disgusting garage floor, and began flailing around...kicking and screaming...throwing some sort of wild fit like a 3 year old. After I wallered around for about a minute or so, K turned off the truck, got out, and walked up next to me. He leaned over me and said, "Hey, you need to get up now. I'm sure you've freaked out the kids. But, I have to admit, that was some funny sh** when you went to throw that flip flop and it hit the garage ceiling and fell right back in front of you!! But seriously, now. We need to get loaded up to go."
Embarrassed, defeated, tired, and dirty, I gathered what was left of myself up off of the floor, put my flip flop back on, brushed off my purple pajama pants, put the ta-ta's back inside the tank top, fixed my hair a bit, and shuffled back into the house. He was right. I needed to pull it together and get ready to go.
Now, I ask myself: What in the WORLD was I so mad about? What had K done or said that sent me in to the pits of hell and roaring back out with a flip flop in hand? Was I crazy?
I think, to be honest, stress had worn me down both physically and emotionally. I worried too much about selling the house, being perfect, and getting on the road on time. Who was I impressing? Why did it matter? Truth is, it didn't matter.
Like a dog that had just had an accident on it's owner's shoe, I slinked into the living room, found K, and apologized profusely. He just laughed and said not to worry about it---he knew when he married me that I had the ability to go psycho on him (wait, what?). He was also feeling stressed. We made the agreement to: 1. NEVER speak of the flip flop incident again (that failed miserably), and 2. Leave the stress at the doorstep while we were on vacation.
I was NOT proud. I'm definitely NOT proud now that I put it all out there. I am, however, satisfied knowing that no matter what I do, I'm not too crazy, too embarrassing, too emotional, or too whatever.
I'm ME.
Let life "get in the way" sometimes. Let things play out, and you'd be surprised just how often the plot twists and you find yourself in a better place. Just make sure you wear the right footwear for the occasion.
~Andy
PS: During any disagreement now, K asks if I'm going to beat him with a flip flop or something...he's got jokes. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment