Shook Up Like A Bag Of Chips

I Do Countdown: 10 Days

Today the alarm went off at 5 a.m. when I didn't have to get up until 8 and the first thing I did was step on a cat poo truffle.
This is a sign from God that I shouldn't leave the house. Cause yesterday the alarm went off at 5 and the first thing I did was clean up dog piddle. And I really shouldn't have left the house. But nobody told me it was a Sign. They should have, but I don't think there is anybody delegated to tell you what the Signs are. You're given a Sign - it's up to you to interpret the Sign. I guess the powers-that-be figure we don't need somebody to say, "YO, STUPID - THAT THERE'S A SIGN." But they're wrong, because we do.
I am all shook up like a bag of chips.
My parents used to say that to me when I was all wound up, which was a lot, looking back - poor them. These days I'm less hyperactive and more like a big slug - sometimes I wish someone would poke me with a stick just to see if I'm breathing.
But not these days. I'm breathing all right. Hyperventilating, more like. My heart's thumping outta my chest, my skin's clammy and I feel nauseous about 99% of the time, which doesn't prevent me from stuffing my gob like someone stuffs a turkey. Stress eating? Oh yah - I am worried about fitting into my wedding dress. I guess I should have got the elastacene version with the spandex lace inserts and the girdle middle.
Ya see? There's another Sign right there. I came home from work the other night and flipped on the tube and there was Dr. Oz talking about obesity. I frikkin' hate shows about obesity when I'm going through a Fat Stage. When I'm dieting, I could watch Fat Shows all day. They're inspiring. When I'm Fat Staging, they are a guilty reminder and you just want to shut them the hell up. I hate Dr. Oz. I do. I hate him. I don't get why he's so popular. I don't like Dr. Phil, either. And Oprah's just started her last season. I still like Oprah, and I'll miss her. But her two weird doctorish offspring can calve anytime, as far as I'm concerned.
I'm digressing. (It's called Stress Writing, much like Stress Eating only not as tasty.)
Excuse me while I yell at the cat. He's humping Aunt Edna's blanket again. I don't know why he loves to hump Aunt Edna's hand crocheted blanket but the filthy creature is in love with it - GET OFF THE BLANKET, BEN, YOU TWISTED WEIRDO.
I'm digressing again. I want to tell you about yesterday.
At work, I could barely concentrate. I've been having trouble falling asleep at night lately and at work yesterday it was all I could to to keep my eyes open. Toothpicks helped but the pointy ends kept poking holes in my eyelids. Time moved exquisitely slow. Like in school, when you're bored out of your ever loving skull and the clock moves in slow motion. Tick ..... tick .... tick .... and drool puddles out of the corner of your mouth and your head is bobbing and weaving ... tick ....
When it was finally time to leave, with emphasis on Finally, I decided to go into town (my office is on the outskirts) and pick up a couple of chick flicks, some dish soap and a bag of McDonald's. Dave was away overnight for a course in Toronto and I figured I would curl up on the couch with some romantic wedding comedy and a Big Mac.
So I went to the video store and picked out Bride Wars and Letters to Juliet, or something, and then paid. Uneventfully. I had enough points to get one movie for free so I only had to fork over five bucks cash for the other one. Fine. (And since I only ended up watching one movie I don't feel like I wasted anything.)
Then I went over to the grocery store because I needed some dish soap, laundry detergent and light bulbs. I pulled out my debit card for that one and Guess What! The transaction was Not Approved. My face heated up like an Arizona sunrise. But I was cool. "Oops," I said. And forked out the sixteen bucks from the loonies and toonies I had in my wallet.
I HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS.
Actually it hasn't happened to me for a long, long time. But I've been spending money like a drunken sailor on wedding crap so what's surprising isn't that I finally ran out of coin, it's that I didn't run out sooner.
While I played it cool at the check-out counter, inside I was a gelatinous mess. My legs were shaking so bad I could hardly walk out to the parking lot.
"Settle down," I said to myself. "Breathe."
My hands shook as I started the Jeep.
I know what I'm like when I get like this. If I was with Dave, I'd let him drive because it's just safer that way. But Dave wasn't there. So I actually consciously told myself to Be Careful backing up, to look all ways, to do it slow.
Still, I just missed backing into somebody's pick-up truck by inches. INCHES. Maybe even less than that. The "what would have happened if I had of hit it" ran through my head as my heart pounded in my chest.
I drove away, slowly. When I got to the highway I set the cruise control because I didn't trust myself to keep to the speed limit. I just wanted to get home, in one piece.
Yesterday I had a friend wonder if I was mad at her. NO! I'm just a big, weirded out ball 'o stress. I yell at my kids. I cry without warning or reason. I snap at Dave.
So last night, when I got home safe and sound, I made a few phone calls. I called my friend and told her I'm not mad at her. I called my kids and told them I'm not mad at them. I called Dave and told him how much I missed him. I watched Bride Wars. I folded some laundry. I ate some chips - because sometimes it's better to eat chips than to be shook up like a bag of them.
As for today's Sign, the kitty litter encrusted turd that I stepped on (our dog pulls them out of the litter box and kindly deposits them around the house) and the raging alarm clock, I vow to heed the warning. Or at least try.
With only 10 days to go, it's getting harder and harder to do.