I have crazy-person pride.
Gone are the days when I would feel guilty about my obsessions with my health, my weight, other people’s opinions of me, and so on. I haven’t gotten any better: I’ve just accepted my own neurotic self. I say, “Up with crazy people!” Who’s with me?
Here’s how crazy I am: When I can’t locate an ache or pain to worry about, or torture myself with my insufficient bank balance, or obsess over whether or not I hurt a friend’s feelings, I like to listen really carefully to the noises my car makes when I’m driving around. Have you ever done this? Really listened hard to your car? Do you hear all those rattles and shimmies and hiccups? Sounds like it’s gonna blow, doesn’t it? Well, it probably will. And think how awful you’ll look, with your eyebrows burnt off. Just like David Bowie during the Aladdin Sane period, only with no excuses or groupies.
In the old days, I’d think about this kind of thing, and then I’d feel bad. “I’m really crazy,” I’d think mournfully. And then I’d wonder if my parents were paying my friends to listen to me ask them, again and again, if they were sure that I’m not dying, if my car really does sound okay, if my ass looks fat in these pants, or why such-and-such a boy is acting in such-and-such a way.
Now, however, I have developed a more charitable attitude toward myself. I catch myself thinking about these things, and instead of thinking, “Jesus, I need therapy,” I think, “Aw, there I go again. Worrying about nothing. That’s just like me.” Chuckle, chuckle. And then I worry some more.
But that’s OK! I’m completely fine with that now. However, I will require you to come here and tell me if you think this hair I just found along my part is really gray. I think it’s blonde, but I’m not sure. Look at it. Look. Is it gray? I think it might be.
Oh my God, it’s only a matter of time.