There’s an old saying that gets thrown around a lot, but it really is true…something about the ones who know us best also being the best at pushing our buttons.
Well, my buttons just got pushed, and I’m PISSED.
I’m finally figuring out that the people I gravitate toward and want most in my life are usually the interesting ones…the ones who stand out in a crowd and demand to be noticed. They’re funny, and charming, and being around them seems like the best thing since I learned to tie my own shoes. Being with them just feels GOOD…for a while.
And then I realize that (more often than not) their charm is really just some sort of ramped-up crazy…the kind that wants to burrow down into your soul, where it tries to crazify everything it touches. That wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have a peculiar disorder that requires me to invite that proselytizing, born-again crazy right into my life. Not only invite it in (like the clueless victim in the vampire story…”Well come on IN Mr. Dracula!”) but I then have the need to make a comfy little spot for that crazy, complete with a La-Z-Boy and a plate of fresh-baked cookies. I apparently want that crazy to stick around and make itself at home!
Which leads us to today’s button-pushing episode. The worst part of it was that I have, over time, showed Mr. Crazy where the buttons were, and have instructed him on exactly how to use them…more than once. (This is the part where I take responsibility for my own crazy…I think it was Einstein who talked about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result…yeah, that’s me…I get it.)
Note to self: Tammy, a month from now when said button-pusher shows up looking all sweet, innocent and only mildly crazed, remind yourself about that stomped-on area adjacent to the La-Z-Boy…the spot where all those stale cookie crumbs are. Keep that area VACANT, and invite that crazy right into the corn field, where it belongs.
Thank you…my tirade is now complete.