Tuesday: I realize that I am NOT a Hyper-Sensitive Person.
The other day I was having a conversation with a friend from work who had posted something on the Twitterverse about HSP, which stands for Hyper-Sensitive Person. We were going through the list of criteria, and I have to admit that I have a couple of the symptoms. For example, I hate loud noises. More specifically, I hate vacuum cleaners. Hate is maybe too mild a word. Vacuum cleaners make me want to gouge my eyes out, to the point that, a few years ago, I bought a Roomba. For those of you who don’t know what a Roomba is, it’s a very expensive robot vacuum. It’s not a badass robot with laser beam eyes and super-strength, but it WILL vacuum your carpet when you’re not at home which at the time SEEMED pretty badass. It was perfect for me, because that meant the rugs got cleaned but I didn’t have to suffer the torment of listening to it. Things were great for a while—I would put it in the middle of a room, turn it on, then run out the door, leaving it to its robot devices. Then, inevitably, Ken decided that he was now in charge of the robot, like an evil robot slave master. And he insisted on running it when we were actually home. What’s the point of that? You might as well just use a regular, non-sentient vacuum. I would be in my bathroom, and suddenly the Roomba would grind in, like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was about to happen. This is not an exaggeration—one time, it actually attacked my feet and I ran away from it. But then it kept coming after me, and it was like one of those horror films where, no matter how fast you run, the killer just keeps on relentlessly coming and eventually catches you. I finally resorted to kicking it away when it would cruise through the room I was in, until finally, it died. I have no regrets. It was evil and alive—it was either kill it myself or call in a priest. Ken was sad—he loved his robot vacuum, but that’s the way things go when you want to act like a petty despot—robots get hurt.
Aside from my bizarre hatred of vacuums, here’s how I know that I am NOT an HSP. Apparently, people who are hyper-sensitive always remember everyone’s birthday, because they will hate themselves if they forget. As much as I wish I was a good person who wrote down important milestones in a little diary, I don’t. I have forgotten the birthdays of my parents and siblings, forgotten my wedding anniversary, and regularly get T’s birth year and the year I got married mixed up. So, sometimes he’s 24, and sometimes he’s 16. Also, I’m horrible at writing messages in cards. Where I work, people are always having babies, getting married, and things like that, and I learned a long time ago that, just like my poor small talk skills, I’m equally bad at card small talk. Some people are capable of writing epic messages, like “He was gone before his time—remember the best parts of him as a tribute to his memory”, or “Babies are a gift from the heavens—you are truly blessed.” Me, I learned a long time ago that I am NOT epic, and I usually just resort to “So sorry for your loss”, or “Congratulations”. The other day, I had to write two Thank You cards. Inevitably, I screwed the first one up. Instead of “We make a good team”, I wrote “We make a good time”. Then I got worried that the person might think that it was some bizarre pick-up line, and I got totally paranoid and ended up throwing the card away, because there was no way to correct THAT, except to start over again. Wait—maybe that means I AM hyper-sensitive. But no, because hyper-sensitive people apparently have their feelings hurt easily, and honestly, it takes a LOT to hurt my feelings. The other day, I asked one of my bosses something, and he replied, “It would be really FOOLISH to think that”, and I was like “Yeah, fair enough.” When I was a kid, I had big feet, and every time I bought new shoes, a certain member of my family who shall remain nameless would say, “Do they come with paddles?” and I would laugh (but it was one of those laughs which says, When I’m older, I’ll think of a clever comeback, and then you’ll be sorry). In other words, I’m pretty even-keeled. I don’t get bothered about much, except, frankly, insane killer-robot vacuums.
Thursday: I ponder predictability
First, I love Ken. He’s awesome, and he puts up with my many foibles. He hardly ever gets mad, even when I killed his robot vacuum, or when I buried his slippers in the garden because he kept leaving them on the basement stairs (although THAT could be because I never told him about it. Surprise!). But let’s be honest—he has some “foibles” too. Mainly his predictability. Ken is very predictable. In fact, I can predict with absolute certainty that he just said, “I am NOT predictable”, because that is exactly what he will say when he reads that (and he just did, haha). But he is predictable, and I can prove it:
Exhibit A: A couple of weeks ago, we had the first ice storm of the season. I have a new, little, very cute and sporty car. I used to have a great big SUV with all-wheel drive. To my surprise (and it was a very nasty surprise), my new car, by virtue of the fact that it weighs about 10 pounds, is NOT good on ice or snow. I discovered this as I tried to leave the driveway. Things, and the car, slid quickly downhill from there. My immediate response (as some of you already know) was to go into panic mode and announce to T, “I’m trading this car in for an SUV. I can’t drive this all winter.” He agreed that it would be a good idea, but I cautioned him: “Your dad will never agree to it. I can tell you right now what he’ll say. ‘We’ll trade for the winter—I’ll drive your car, and you can have my SUV.’” Then I called Ken, because I wanted to complain about the roads (and I have Bluetooth so now I can call him whenever I want to complain about anything, which he secretly loves), and when I told him I wanted a different car, he said, ‘We’ll trade for the winter—I’ll drive your car, and you can have my SUV.’ (I just copied and pasted that from the first time I wrote it, because I didn’t even need to retype it—that’s how well I know him). To which I replied, “What the hell is the point of that? Then YOU can die in a car crash?! I knew you would say that. You’re so predictable!” And he said, “No, I’m NOT.” Which is exactly what I knew he would say.
Exhibit B: Whenever I ask him what he wants for dinner, he always says “homemade pizza”. I don’t know why I ask. I should just make the damn pizza and cut out the middleman.
Exhibit C: He’s even predictable in his unpredictability. When we’re driving, the one thing I can always count on is that he refuses to ever drive the same route twice in a row. So that would seem UN-predictable, but the fact that he ALWAYS does it makes it not count. We’ll be driving and suddenly I’ll realize I have no idea where we are. He’ll turn down a random road, and I’ll be like “Where the hell are we going? We’re backtracking. We’re driving AWAY from where we’re going.” And he’ll say, “It’s a shortcut.” NO, IT’S NOT, KEN. When you drive in the opposite direction from your destination, you aren’t taking a shortcut, you’re Christopher f-ing Columbus. Of course, he tries to explain things using fancy technical terms like North, South, East, or West, which he knows I don’t understand, because to me, you either go left or right. And then I’m like, “We’re not going North, Ken—we’re going ASSBACKWARDS.”
Anyway, I suppose predictability is a good thing. Like I know if I send him an email hint from Tiffany.ca, I can predict that he will buy something for me, and if I ask him to rub my back, he always will, without complaint. What more does a girl need?