So we all know I’m a crazy bish with control issues. Seriously, I don’t try to hide or deny it. The more stressed I am the worse it gets. With the stress level lately trying to get everything ready for the move you can imagine what a peach I’ve been to be around. Add to that a steady diet of Diet Coke and chocolate I’m just about wired for sound. This is all a recipe for an OCD cocktail that just might explode if you’re not careful. I think my husband has been at least mildly thankful that his schedule has kept him out of the line of fire.
There is reason behind my madness, though. When chaos reins supreme as it has the last few months my brain requires control. If
you know me at all you know that my life is normally filled with some
kind of chaos, so how can this really be any different? Well, usually
it’s a chaos of my own creation and I know where the limits are. I do brew my own proprietary brand of crazy and am able to happily work within the confines that requires. Trust me, live in my head long enough and you find ways to make this work. When there’s extra crazy, that’s when things get dicey. I then require to have a gargantuan amount of control over, well, everything.
I also have a wicked fear of heights. Not so much heights as falling. I think more accurately it’s that sudden stop at the end that’s the real problem. I
do have a rather vivid imagination and can see everything that’s going
to happen from the time I’m somewhere Up until how I horrifically make
it to Down. That also requires an uncontrolled fall for an indeterminate
amount of time (see above). All in all, not good.
I explained all that to tell you this:
My husband tried to kill me. No shit, thought I was gonna die, all his
fault and the bastard did it on purpose! I’m not sure if he was going
for the driving-us-off-a-cliff-fireball-of-death-down-a-mountain or
giving me a heart attack because I was imagining the
driving-us-off-a-cliff-fireball-of-death-down-a-mountain. Let me explain. I usually drive. I just do. I always have (ahem, control issues). And, mountain roads scare the hell out of me (the whole heights/falling/ sudden stop thing). Doug,
trying to be a sweet husband, had offered to drive (and had to continue
to drive because of some freak issue with my power seats). I prefer to
drive on mountain roads because if I’m gonna die from
driving-us-off-a-cliff-fireball-of-death-down-a-mountain then I’d rather
try to control it. Instead I spent a
good 20 miles curled in a little ball in the passenger seat with a
white knuckled grip on the arm rest and my eyes squeezed tightly shut
praying that we didn’t all die in that aforementioned fireball and
trying not to whimper or out-right cry. Not one of my proudest moments. We did get to re-play the whole thing again when we drove down the Oregon coast for a few hours. All he could do was shake his head and ask “Seriously?”. Especially,
since the second time I wasn’t able to stifle the whimper and about
crawled onto the center console. Yes, I’m crazy. And as I like to remind
him, he signed up for this shit on purpose.
Needless to say we are not going to be continuing down the 101 and
visiting the great California Redwood forest. I don’t think my nerves
could take it. Maybe next year.