So I am 40 today. That makes me old, reflective, and writing. I am halfway to 80. I am 20 twice. I am starting to realize that I am a little bit quirky. My husband snorted because I said “a little bit”. Maybe I’m just starting to realize it more as I grow wiser and more introspective. Much wiser. And much more quirky. At least I’m not yet “Batty” – that’s usually reserved for octogenarians. But me?
I am a Prepper. Not just like the zombies might come and we should have a supply of foods and medicine for everyone in the house and a “go bag” in case we need to bug out. I do all that and have all that. Including gluten-free emergency food packs for Katie. And we have a generator. The kind that powers the entire house in an apocalypse. But I also prep the bathrooms. To me an emergency occurs not when there is no more toilet paper in the bathroom, but before that, when the spare rolls are down to just one. If I could wallpaper the room with spare rolls I would. But in the meantime I have one of those toilet paper storage rolls in every bathroom. And they should always be stocked. If they become empty, everything comes to a grinding halt, and everyone needs to participate in the restocking phenomenon. My kids think this is weird. That’s just another name for quirky.
I hate dirty bathrooms – and germs in general. Or bathrooms that might be dirty. Or bathrooms that were used by someone outside the first generation of our family tree or my closest friends. Or too many people even within that circle. I have cootie issues. I can’t use a use a bathroom after a certain number of guests at a party have used it. Those kinds of odds means someone must have germs. Or syphilis. Same applies if it’s been too many days between a thorough cleaning and a house guest. What if they contracted a horrible disease that hasn’t manifested itself? Like a stomach bug? Or ebola? I will climb numerous flights of stairs to find a clean bathroom instead of using one that looks perfectly fine but might have invisible cooties. Of course I could always clean it. Like now. Good lord let me get my Clorox wipes. Or else hide under my covers. Maybe take a nap.
Napping is both a science and an art, but most importantly, an essential life skill to be learned. I love naps. I wish I lived in a country where siestas were part of the culture. I’d rock that. Eat a lovely lunch, maybe a glass of wine, and then crawl into bed? I’m on it. In the meantime, in the few instances where I can justify a nap, I have a system. I’ve taught this system to my children like learning to cross the street. There are steps to be followed. First, go to the (clean) bathroom. There’s nothing worse than getting comfy and realizing that you have to get up to pee. Next, there are no pants allowed in naps. I don’t know where this came from. It might have been that I was out one day and sat down in public and then decided that those pants that had sat in who knows what invisible ick should not be in my bed mushing on my sheets. So no pants. That keeps clean sheets and makes for much more comfort. If you can’t sleep without pants I’m sorry. Put on your PJs. Next, you need the perfect temperature. Preferably cold. So you can have lots of blankets. Then, sleep mask. This is better than blackout shades because it makes it easier to wake up in time to get the kids from school. And yes, I have been known to fall asleep in car line. Don’t worry. I was parked. The kids were safe.
My kids and family have a lot to add in the things they find quirky department. Katie knows I like my towels folded a particular way. That is true. I like them to fit the shelf. And also to have the folded side out because it is prettier than the loose side. Alex tells me I am a master tomato slicer. He says that every time I slice a tomato the slices are all the same size. I think that is not only sweet but also interestingly funny because it is true, and I have no spatial relations in any larger items beyond produce. I love moving furniture and on occasion have been known to get a large chair stuck in a doorway that I swore was going to fit without issue. My poor sister who puts up with me and assists me in all furniture moving expeditions because she is Herculean strong, was unfortunately stuck on the other side of the giant chair. She had to go outside and come back in again through another door. Thank goodness she has a wicked sense of humor. She has to in order to put up with me.
The hubby has put up with me for a very long time too, and somehow deals with my list of quirky things I hate. He knows I hate Band aids. Have hated them all my life, well before I discovered I have a latex allergy. I’d rather let myself bleed to death than wear a band aid. The sight of a band aid on a pool deck will send me into dry heaves. He knows I hate wet towels on the bed. I see it and stop breathing. Draped over a wooden chair? Heart attack. I throw salt over my left shoulder when I spill it. Or when someone else spills it. You can’t be too careful. I have a stubborn refusal to curse in front of my kids, but as soon as they leave the room I have a flamboyant tongue that would put pirates and truckers alike to shame. I don’t understand song lyrics but sing along anyway and make up my own. Brian found my inability to hear things accurately so perplexing I had my hearing tested. I’m fine. Just quirky.
So for me today, it’s not about just embracing 40. It’s about embracing me, at any age. And I think I am quite something, quirky or not. I’m not sure what that something is yet, but it sure is something, nonetheless. Just wait til I’m beyond quirky and into Batty. That blog is gonna rock.