The Dangers of “Me-Time”

21 May

Do you know why people get jobs?

(If you answered “to earn a living” or “to leave an awesome legacy” or “to do something really important” then you are reading this post through “Literal Glasses,” and I suggest you remove them immediately.)

People get jobs so they don’t end up sitting at home and watching horror/mystery films about things that are slightly dramatized, but not so much that they seem unrealistic.

A film where Halle Berry is a 9-1-1 emergency telephone responder? Clearly dramatized.

Image

I mean, come on, that hair and that flawless complexion? Something seems fishy.

A film where Abigail Breslin gets abducted and locked in a trunk and her only hope of survival is Halle Berry and her hair and flawless complexion? Again, pretty unrealistic.

But, when you are ALONE in a HOUSE and you have yet to drink COFFEE and your DOG keeps CLAWING on the door, everything seems real.

When I woke up the other morning, I had every intention of watching some TV, doing the elliptical, catching up on my correspondence, clipping my nails, and then working on my memoir. It was just supposed to be a relaxed 1.5 hours of morning “me time.”

Image

(My plan also involved ordering a giant, pink bathtub off of Amazon, purchasing a fake ID so I could buy some champagne, and getting a mullet-like, frontal bangs haircut so I could be a legitimate “me-time diva” and not a lame poser. I don’t believe in half-assed attempts.)

Everything was going according to plan. My nails were trimmed; my correspondence was eloquently written, thanks to the quill I’d made out of a seagull’s feather I’d found on the beach last summer; my mullet and bangs said, “hey, I may be responsible for bringing the orange slices to practice, but I still know how to take some time out for myself!” I was feeling good.

And then, after I’d finished watching “My Best Friend’s Wedding” – with which I have a love/hate relationship because Julia Roberts doesn’t get the man in the end and that goes against EVERY one of my firmly-held romantic comedy beliefs – I STUPIDLY allowed the television to stay on as a nice movie called, The Call, began to play.

Here’s a tip:

DO NOT WATCH THIS MOVIE.

I mean, watch it if you dare. But I suggest you don’t “dare” because this movie scared me into next week.

Literally. It’s next week and I still have to peek out of my shower curtain every five seconds to check for home invaders/ghouls/ghosts/giant rats with long tails/hot fudge sundaes with store-bought whipped cream/a poor performance by Meryl Streep/a Beyonce song that doesn’t make me want to dance/enclosed water slides in which a slightly chubby kid wearing an “I ❤ Chorus” t-shirt could get stuck.

(These are all of my irrational fears. They are TOTALLY irrational and not at all based on past experiences. I mean, who would soberly purchase an “I ❤ Chorus” t-shirt? Only a fool.)

As I was watching The Movie That Would Scar Me Forever, I tried to persuade myself to stop watching.

Get off the couch, I told myself.

Switch to an E! Hollywood News special, I begged myself.

But noooo Self wasn’t having it. Self decided I needed a little excitement in my life.

Fast-forward to the end of the movie and I realize I haven’t taken a breath for a solid fifteen minutes. My fists are clenched and I think I’ve sprained my back, just from sheer terror.

My dog is barking aggressively. I assume she needs to pee, although I do not discount the possibility that there is a monster in my garage.

Hold on. Is there a monster in my garage?

After forcing myself up off the couch, I take my dog outside.

SHIT THERE IS A MONSTER.

Oh, no. That is a lacrosse stick with a beach towel on top of it. I make a mental note to never become a lax girl.

Ah, maybe there’s nothing to fear. All seems pretty quiet on the home front.

And the Western Front. (I assume.)

I continue my walk with Ruby, which ends in a mere 45 seconds. A dog after my own heart, that one.

Well, now that this is all behind me, I’ll just open the…

WAIT. Hadn’t I locked the door before leaving the house? Why is it unlocked?

And why the royal EFF had I decided to leave the garage open? Am I INSANE?

Quickly, what did I learn on Barney that I can apply to this situation?

Stop, drop and roll?

Fake it till you make it?

Chew like you have a secret?

Yes, these are all very important lessons, but no, none of these seem correct!!!

I start to panic.

My hair is nowhere near as fabulous as Halle’s! I forgot to Photoshop my skin this morning!

If the “Stars: They’re Just Like Us” section of US Magazine is correct and Hollywood really is representative of real life, then I’m screwed because I am a regular human and not Halle Berry….which means I have no chance of combatting whatever is inside of my home.

Okay, I’ll just pace around outside in my front yard for TWENTY MINUTES, calling my house from my cell phone at two minute intervals and texting my mom to tell her what I’m going through.

Because that’s what home invaders fear most: a ringing telephone, a pacing girl, and a slew of “Mom I think there’s someone in our house, but I’m not sure and also could you please get some blueberries at the store later because I accidentally dropped them on the floor” texts.

My mom says she will get the blueberries, thank God.

She also suggests I let Ruby into the house first before going in myself.

Mom, thanks for trying to help, but in case you’ve forgotten, Ruby is the size of the spoon with which I ate my yogurt this morning, and I’m pretty sure the only person she scares is herself when she looks at her reflection after pooping in your shower.

Image

(I make a promise to myself that, should I survive this whole situation, I will never again take my morning yogurts for granted…I also vow to be nicer to my dog. Fear really shines light on life’s priorities.)

At this point, I really am out of options. So, I listen to my mom’s sage advice and volunteer Ruby as tribute. (“Volunteer” sounds so much nicer and less ritualistic than “sacrifice,” doesn’t it?)

But first, I grab a big, pink broom and ready it in my hand as a potential defense mechanism.

I think it is kind of ironic and clever of me to attack a home invader with a home appliance.

(No, I did not spend a solid two minutes deciding which home appliance would pack a bigger punch in both a physical and a metaphorical sense.)

I take a moment to allow myself what will probably be my last chuckle.

When I enter my house, everything seems normal. The TV is still on; my yogurt bowl is getting crusty in a corner; my People Magazine is still open to the same page.

But I can’t afford to be sloppy! So I wander around the house with my pink broom and alternate between greetings, such as “Hello?” and, “I have a pit-bull out back that hasn’t been fed for daysssss.”

Where can I get a pit bull? I wonder.

Maybe potential invaders would fear Pitbull the rapper just as much as they’d fear my man-eating dog, I hope. That would conveniently save me the hassle of finding a breeder, I reason.

Luckily, there is no need to download a whole bunch of Pitbull music…

…Or to find a breeder…

The house is clear. (I hope.)

My mind, however, is a different story.

It takes me a long time to decompress and to detour from the Yellow Brick Road to CRAZY TOWN, along which I’d been traveling for a solid three plus hours.

****

Later that night, I decided to go for a “quick run,” which turned into a two hour adventure, in the dark, without my iPhone.

When I returned home, my mom *spoke sternly* to me about “letting the pork chops get cold!”

At which point I said, “THE PORK CHOPS?? AT LEAST I’M STILL WARM!!! DID YOU EVER THINK ABOUT THAT?”

She seemed confused but let it go.

I didn’t think I was suffering from culture shock after returning from abroad…but maybe I should claim to be suffering from culture shock so that I have an excuse for my dramatic, anal, paranoid behavior.

And so that I won’t have to put my laundry away or water the roses. (Who even knew we had roses??)

Anyway, I may be suffering from an acute case of culture shock, but I think I’m still authorized by the State of Massachusetts to give advice.

So this is my PSA to all of you fine people: GET A JOB.

Otherwise, you’ll end up like me: a crotchety old woman with a fear of her own home, a resentment of Halle Berry, and an inexplicable anger toward pork chops.

 

Have you had a scarring scary movie experience? Do you feel strongly about pork chops? If so, comment below.

Advertisements

3 Responses to “The Dangers of “Me-Time””

  1. sophpearl May 26, 2014 at 7:47 pm #

    Haha last I heard, the “Halle House Call” business operates on a very competitive lottery system, so I’d go with a good Norah Ephron romantic comedy 🙂

  2. essbee14 May 24, 2014 at 7:00 pm #

    I was wondering if I could handle that movie, and your post makes me think it’s not the wisest idea – I scare so easily (and it totally lingers for weeks). Unless Halle wanted to come hang out at my house for a while and help with protection and stuff. That could work.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Supergoose Para Uno | A Series of Tom Fooleries - August 25, 2015

    […] By now, the thrill of solitary existence has worn off. (But not the thrills of daytime television or hot cocoa powder.) Today, the thrill has been replaced with a fear of “me-time.” […]

Tell me what you think!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: