At least once a day I am reminded that I am without a doubt completely insane. There are the small things- panic attacks that result from walking past the crystal kiosk at the mall, or the full conversations that I have with myself, my cat, and sometimes inanimate objects, as if I will get some reply.
There are those special occasions, however, that my natural instincts are so bizarre that I seriously consider hiring a life coach. Yesterday evening, for example, I had a knee jerk reaction that even I can't play off as normal.
I was leaving work for the day, packing up my things, and trading in the pumps for boots. When I put on the boots that morning, I had coupled them with a pair of thick Penn State slipper socks that I had stolen from my father that could possibly pass for boots themselves. That evening, in my haste to leave the office, I decided the nix the socks, and pulled on the boots without. I zipped up my coat and got to steppin.
Halfway down the stairs to the parking lot, I realized that there was something sorta lumpy, kinda squishy invading my right boot. My immediate thought was oh shit, my little fucker of a cat killed a mouse and left it in my shoe as a surprise. Normal? Nope. A thought that a normal person might maybe have and then easily dismiss? Sure. Me? Completely convinced there was a rotting animal carcass under my right foot.
The one minute walk across the parking lot to my car was an eternity. I'm sure in my attempt not to step fully down on my right foot, while trying desperately not to slip on snow, and choke down the vomit that kept rising as the thought that I was crushing animal guts between my toes made me look a little like Gary Busey after a meth and Red Bull cocktail. This, coupled with the fact that my boots were actually hot pink galoshes that I pretended could pass for snow boots, just completed the picture.
I lunged myself into my car, tore the boot from my foot completely terrified of what I'd find. I anticipated just using the soiled boot as a barf bag and leaving it in the parking lot, as finding a squashed dead mouse in my shoe would most likely make me yak, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna make any effort to salvage the boot by cleaning it out of there.
I hesitantly looked inside. There, crumpled heavily in the toe of my pink rubber boot, was a Chewy granola bar wrapper. S'mores flavored. I probably missed my trash can during the day and it floated innocently into my shoe, which was sitting under my desk right beside it.
My relief was immediate, yet temporary. The panic quickly subsided, replaced with the thought that a sane person doesn't jump to the conclusion that a lump in her shoe is animal entrails. Huh. There's another year on the couch.