Tuesday, September 14, 2010
When a little "crazy" comes in handy
For instance, I'm passionate about vacuums. The very act of vacuuming is therapeutic for me; the steady back and forth motion, the fresh vacuum lines that appear on the carpet, the fact that all other noise is completely drowned out and everything else in the world goes away while I focus on this one thing for a few minutes. And don't even get me started on the high I get when I empty all that dirt out of the canister and realize that it's no longer in my carpet. Who needs cocaine when you've got dirt in a bucket?
Since I love to vacuum so much, it just makes sense that I also love vacuums. I currently own three of them, which is something that my husband never fails to use as ammunition in the Who's Crazier war. Which is okay because I still have that time the cops showed up to your parents house during a Father's day celebration because your dad and brother were blowing stuff up again in my arsenal for when we get into Whose Family is Crazier.
What he just doesn't understand is that I NEED each of these vacuums. Not only do I develop an emotional attachment to them after a while, but they each have a specific job they are assigned to do that none of the other vacuums do quite as well. The blue one reaches deep into the grooves of the couch and the edges where the carpet meets the wall, the yellow one has the pet hair attachment and the telescoping, self cleaning duster while the pink one is best at getting the dirt hiding deep under the surface of the carpet.
Plus, a pink vacuum? That's just good sense; every woman should own one.
The obsessions don't end there. In fact, often what I obsess over isn't an actual item, but more of an idea. Like the time Dixie went missing for three hours and I was just so sure that we'd eventually find her dead, limp body lying in the street and all I could think about for the entire three hours was how I would never, ever get over the trauma of seeing her that way. Turns out that she had just followed me into the bedroom and I'd accidentally locked her in there when I'd left the room. I also tend to think that everyone has Cystic Fibrosis and have actually been known to lick the neighborhood kids to see if they have the classic, salty CF taste to their skin. Then there are all those times that I've watched a TV commercial and been totally convinced that I have the condition, disease and/or adverse side effects of whatever it is they are advertising. More than once, Adam has had to hold a hysterical me in his arms, run his fingers through my hair and console me by gently saying something like "Honey, I'm almost positive you aren't suffering from an enlarged prostate."
So you can imagine his skepticism when, last week, he greeted me with a friendly hello followed by a quick kiss and I simply said "I think you have a disease."
But here's the thing: I don't think I'm being ridiculous... this time.
I won't go into the details right now, mostly for Adam's privacy (see, I really do have boundaries) but I will say that he has suffered from some very strange and often painful symptoms his entire life, and they have never been explained. In researching this particular disease, I'm finding that EVERY SINGLE ONE of his symptoms could be explained by it. But since I may have gone a teeny bit overboard with similar things in the past, he's having a hard time taking me seriously. The more we talk about it the more he is starting to see my point, but we are now entering the battlefield known as Convincing My Husband To See a Doctor which means that things might get a little ugly 'round these here parts.
While it may be true that I take the trophy when it comes to "crazy", when it comes to "stubborn" he may just have me beat. And there's just no telling what can happen when those two traits collide.
Consider this your fair warning.