Yesterday Eric and I took our niece to Claire’s to pick out a bunch of jewelry and accessories for her birthday. I went to the register to pay, and the cashier asked for my email. I immediately gave it to him. Eric rolled his eyes.
Eric: “Now you’re just going to just get a bunch of emails from Claire’s every day.”
Me (muttering through a fake smile): “That’s fine, I’ll unsubscribe later.”
Eric: “Why don’t you just not give him your email?”
BECAUSE, ERIC. I WOULD RATHER RECEIVE 57 DAILY EMAILS FROM CLAIRE’S UNTIL THE DAY I DIE THAN PARTICIPATE IN A POTENTIALLY AWKWARD EXCHANGE WITH THE CASHIER WHO IS JUST TRYING TO DO HIS JOB.
As soon as this thought went through my head, though, I realized how introvert-insane it was, and I was pretty ashamed. So when the cashier then asked for my phone number, I decided to not be as forthcoming.
Me: “Do you really need my phone number?”
Cashier: “Yes, to complete it.”
I had no idea what the ‘it’ was that the cashier needed to complete. He could not have been more purposefully vague. Was the “it” my purchase? A registration to receive Claire’s discounts? A lifetime subscription to never-ending texts with no opt-out option? Approval to let them test their products on my current and any future unborn children? Admission to a Pentecostal cult?
It couldn’t be possible that this children’s jewelry store REQUIRED your phone number to make a purchase. That would be nuts. And while a clogged inbox doesn’t really bother me, constant promotional texts softly threaten my will to live, so this is where I needed to draw the line. This was my clear-cut opportunity to just say no, and not be such a conflict-averse pushover of a human.
Eric looked at me. I looked at Eric. Eric gave me an encouraging nod. I knew what had to be done.
So I turned back to the cashier, took a deep breath, stared him straight in the eye, and in my clearest, bravest, most confident voice, slowly enunciated all ten digits of my phone number.
Last session my therapist asked if I thought it was time to perhaps return to the medications I had once taken for my long-ago diagnosed ADD, but had stopped taking because of trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, breastfeeding, etc. I asked her why she thought that was necessary and she said she noticed a theme of me continuing to struggle with completion of tasks and just generally being distracted.
But I’m a little insulted by this. I actually think I’ve been managing very well without the medications and don’t see why I’d
A few weeks ago I made a new mom friend in my baby music class. She had a baby girl 2 months ago, but attends the class with her 6-month-old boy. If you’re counting on your fingers right now and seeing how that math doesn’t add up (as I did, in front of her), it’s because her first baby was born via surrogate, and then, while the surrogate was pregnant, she got pregnant.
Me: “Oh my god, so you have a 6 month old and a 2 month old AT THE SAME TIME?! That must be soooo hard!!!”
Mom: “It’s actually been a dream. I’ve never been happier.”
People (one person) have often (once) asked me if any of my siblings have as fucked-up a sense of humor as I do. The answer is no.
Steph hasa sense of humor about once a decade, when giving a speech at a sibling wedding. Only on these rare occasions have we seen evidence of her ability to jest, and it shakes us to the very core of our souls every time it happens (two times total).
Jeremy prefers* to be the butt of the jokes.
And does Zack (who got married last year) have a sense of humor as fucked-up as mine?…
Therapist: “How are you feeling about turning 41?”
Me: “I honestly haven’t really thought about it at all! So I’m fine, I guess! Everything is fine!”
Therapist: “Ok. And how have you been sleeping?”
Me: “Oh, well that’s been less fine. Lately I wake up about 3 times a night drenched in sweat. I’m having constant nightmares. They usually involve time– like I’m late for something, or I’m running out of time to do something, and the consequences will be huge. Last night Eric had to shake me awake because I was screaming– apparently in my dream I was being chased by an oversized grandfather clock, like the size of Big Ben, just waiting to fall over and crush me to death.”
Therapist: “I’ll ask you again, how are you feeling about turning 41?”
Me: “I haven’t really thought about it at all! Why?”