I’m weird, and it took a long time to get comfortable with that.

I think on things too much, which comes in handy for my columns but is good for little else. 

One example of my overthinking has to do with my hoodies. I love them because they are warm, comfortable, and best of all — they camoflauge my phantom pregnancy. What I don’t like about my hoodies are the dang strings that dangle in my way when I’m preparing dinner (yes I really do cook sometimes) or when I’m cutting up fabric, or cleaning the bathroom, or tying my shoes, or tying the kids shoes, or changing a diaper. (The baby’s, not mine.) 

Just take the strings out, you say. Yes, I’ve thought of that but do you know what else I thought of? Having watched enough medical shows to be able to pass the boards, I know that around every corner there is the chance of an accident just waiting for me to tie off a bleeding artery — and what better thing to use than a hoodie string? Soooo I suffer the annoyance of those strings every day for the just in case scenario of saving a life — which will likely never happen. I so need therapy.

Wait, there’s more. When I was young I was told that thunder was the noise made by God bowling. When I got a little older thunder was explained to me as a cold air mass bumping into a warm air mass. So when my kids were little and trembling at the ungodly noise outside I simplified it even more by telling them it was just a warm cloud and a cold cloud bumping into each other. Years later I was babysitting my grandchildren during a storm and one particular clap of thunder stood my hair on end. It warmed my heart to hear this four year old say, “It’s okay, Gramma, it’s only cwouds bumping togetter.”

But I got to thinking recently that if all of this is true, then when I open the door after a steaming hot shower and am hit with a blast of Arctic air, why don’t I hear thunder? 

And I wonder where the term hard of hearing ever came from. I mean, no one ever says I’m hard of seeing, or hard of walking, or hard of hair. It’s such a dumb sentence that it ought to be outlawed. And how does one go about that? Do I march around Washington DC or do I just put it on Facebook and let the masses take it on?

You also don’t want to be around when I find a lump or a bite mark on me, or any aches and pains for that matter. My mind will go over all the possibilities — stretching as far as it can go and becoming too paralyzed to even call a doctor, and next thing you know I’m preparing to die. 

Of course that’s because I’m a planner. I wake up in the morning and lie there lining up all the things that need doing that day and even how I’m going to do it. Today I was wondering if I wanted to drive to a particular bank or put everything in the mail. Next thing I know I’m picturing myself parking at the bank just as two robbers come running out — trying to take over my car, and I plot out various ways to thwart them until I’m actually upset (for real) because none of them are working and I have to tell myself to knock it off. 

I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.

But overthinking has its good points. I can plan a party like no one else. In fact the year I was in charge of Vacation Bible School I managed to finagle pony rides for the kids. When I’m running things, I pull out all the stops.

 And when I pack for a trip I leave nothing behind, thanks to my superb list making abilities — well nine out of 10 times anyway. If I forget something its only because I didn’t think of it in the first place — which is rare. 

The only thing I have difficulty thinking up is a good come back in a timely fashion. The next day I’ve five or six good ones but they are useless at that point.

I will leave you with a well thought out tidbit that would have saved Christopher Columbus a lot of trouble: If the earth was flat, cats would have pushed everything off by now. 



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