In highschool I dated a guy named Ronny who said he wanted to run away from home due to the cruelty of his parents (they made him mow the lawn). One night he called me and said all his bags were packed and he was never coming back. Carefully, I began to reason, reminding him that at fourteen you can’t go too far. He didn’t even have a debit card. I have been this way since I can remember, the analytical, practical type. That’s why at the end of my Freshman year, after cheerleading and a homecoming nomination (oh, and my boyfriend Ronny the runaway) I decided to leave, just leave. In subsequent years many have inquired, “what provoked you to just up and leave high school?” I always answer, “bigger and better things.” Dont worry, I did graduate, early, in fact two years early, and when I was done I waited for all my friends to catch up. My poor parents were in constant turmoil, “just be a kid” but silently they knew even this was a long shot.
At the age of five, there were no barbie dolls and babies. Instead, I would “play” corporate woman placing paperclips on my fingers (producing the effect of fake nails) while practicing my typing for hours on a keyboard I stole from my parent’s office. I would also watch food network and admire Julia Childs as she whipped up her fabulous risotto. I never had too many friends as not many five year-olds are into this sort of thing. At twelve, I would remind my church leaders that I planned on one child and a career. They would balk at such, you must multiply and replenish the earth! My answer was simple, “I’ll leave that to you.” Education always mattered to me, always. I realized, at a very young age, that you don’t get anywhere without an education. I still believe that, so sue me.
Anyway, my point in telling you this is very specific. This morning while I was walking to work, that’s when I remembered all of this, and subsequently I realize nothing has changed. I’m still a five year old playing corporate woman and detailing ever account of my life plan. I had been skipping along for about two hundred paces, not so quietly talking to myself. This is a practice I do quite often, in fact so often that my very own son has picked up on it. At two he’d be cheerfully in his carseat having a full on conversation. Suddenly, amidst the music I would realize what a horrible mother I was being and stop—“E, did you want to tell me something?”
“Nope, just talking to myself.” There you go.
So, as I am strolling along reciting my entire day as I plan it I suddenly notice a man behind me, he passes, and stares for a moment. He’d been listening all along. I wrinkle in embarrassment but I can’t say the situation hasn’t happened before. When I am confident he is at least ten paces in the distance I resume my conversation with myself, “that guy probably thinks I’m a lunatic. Am I? Oh, stop. You must stop.”
Categorically, I am so analytical that I speak to my own self about the analysis of my own self and my own doings. Did you get that? This analysis isn’t always a good thing. Last week I overanalyzed a potential date who no longer exists. He decided to take a detour– someplace far away where people listen to hippy music and go where the wind blows them.
In the past three years I have analyzed two things to the point of exhaustion: my marriage and a man named Wayne (I swear that’s his real name). To be continued…
An analytical whit. ing. addict.
Excerpt from my right brain:
Sometimes when you delve into the thoughts of yourself, you get lost. Sometimes things are simpler when you just turn off the light up there and take a nap. You can’t figure everything out Ms. whit. ing. addict–like custody, and divorce, and work, and relationships. Sometimes they figure themselves out while you’re doing other things.