I love laughing at myself. Now, for those who know me, don’t worry that I am doing so to put myself down. Why would I do that? What’s my height again? Oh yeah. I’m four feet six inches on a good day. Trust me, you’ll see nary a hair on my head when the day is less joyous.
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I’m so shy and almost too reverent of people and things. For instance, if you invite me to a family dinner—yes, even when I’m expected–I still won’t knock on your door too loudly. I don’t want to announce myself by jolting you from meal preparation with a harsh rap. How I get passed ‘bothering you’ and into your home before the end of dinner, is anybody’s guess.
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Oh, yes! Like any good Canadian, I am polite. If I bump into a mannequin or mailbox, I always apologize. I blurted out “I’m sorry” to a hydrant once, when I stood blocking its path to the firefighters of the 2012 Calendar.
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Most irritating is that I care about people. You know the type–gentle, sincere, and oh-so-loving–that you want to throttle them. That is me; I admit it freely. It’s my nature and if only toning it down was as simple as lopping off a mole.
I’m stuck with it. I care about people so much my intentions are often misconstrued. This month, I turned down three marriage proposals (one of which was delivered via flash mob); one request to birth a litter of kids in the Australian Outback (marriage license optional), and another from a guy who lived with his mommy on a farm. All of that happened just because I said, “Have a great day!”
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Don’t get me started on the day I met the second most polite Canadian. “After you,” I said, motioning to him.
He bowed his curly-haired head, while shaking it side-to-side “No. After you.”
Don’t try that chivalry crap on me, I thought. I won’t relent because I’m a woman.
Trust me, that revolving door went on forever.
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I have trouble expressing myself sometimes. In therapy I always cosied-up to what I fondly called ‘doorknob statements.’ In other words, I would spend my hour with my social worker and only be ‘warmed up’ after sixty-two minutes. Therefore, the most important stuff happened when I had my fingers wrapped around the doorknob and was almost out of the office. When she shortened the session to fifty minutes, I was in real trouble. I knew I’d be sticking around for a good long time, so I bought shares in her counselling business.
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Sometimes my emotions are a little shaky. I feel as if I’m all over the place while sealed in a big box from IKEA. Sorting everything out is simple. But wait. The simplicity of my two thousand and one-part reassembly hinges on the half-page of directions included within. That’s fine, except my flashlight and Allen key are both two feet away on the outside of the box.
