"Jesus. Take those off. You're being....narcissistic."
I tried to laugh it off, but his words stung. He thought I was being stubborn, which didn't surprise him. We also got in a debate over whether the debate (!) would be the cold open on SNL that night. I would like to publicly declare here, in writing, that he was right and I was wrong, which I have been more of than right lately.
Mark your calendars.
But I wasn't budging on the sunglasses. I wouldn't take them off. He threatened to post my picture to Facebook and say so, which he knew I'd hate. This is how it ended up, though he ultimately chose his words more carefully:
|At the Spokane Chiefs home opener and yes, Heather has not|
taken her sunglasses off and has no plans to.
I had finally discovered a way to tolerate navigating my own personal nightmare and it was pissing him off. He looked around to see if people were staring at me, this woman who was wearing her shades inside.
Honestly, if they were I didn't give a shit.
Here's a little not-so-secret-secret about me: things like concerts and sporting events and carnivals and amusement parks and raves and parades and some kinds of church and monster truck shows and smash bashes and things with loud music and bright flashing lights like the sun or the moon above a sliver and big crowds and loads of stimulation? Not for me.
Unfortunately, the rest of my family thinks it's tits. So I can either be a Sad Sally and stay home for the rest of their lives and miss out, or I can go with them and be miserable (and sometimes get legitimately sick) or I can go and block as much stimulation as possible and look, according to hubs, like a narcissist.
I think he's missing the right description here. A narcissist would be like taking a million selfies or something. I will admit I look like a lunatic. Or someone with a bad case of pink eye that I'm woefully ashamed of at minimum.
Oh, and I'm also wearing ear plugs, which you can't see, thanks to my hair.
Oh. My hair. Let's talk about that for just a second.
Does anybody else do that thing where you give somebody hundreds of dollars to make your hair look like the basic bitches drinking PSL's in UGGs and soft scarves and perfect messy buns in the Pinterest pins you're showing them, and you tell them you'd like your highlights specifically "not stripey" and they never write anything down and the next time they do something totally different and they always massage the shit out of your head which is like, fancy and part of the millions of dollars that other fancy posh women who go there pay for them to do and so they must like it so you sit still and pretend that it's nice because it must be nice because everyone else likes it but it really feels just like this sounds (as in your head is still dirty and trapped between two things you don't want touching it anymore):
And then the next day when you look exactly the same as you did the week before you think, "bloody hell, I should have just sent all my hair money to Kim to fly here to fix my hair instead."
No? Just me? Ok.
So here I am at this hockey game just overwhelmingly happy that I have made this discovery wherein I can participate in the happy fun time activities with my family and not be completely miserable. I am thinking of the other things that I will be able to do. I slowly start to realize how effed up I am.
Rue 21? Maurices? NorthTown Mall? Have you been there? I cannot concentrate. I have had to just up and leave because l literally cannot. It is so damn loud. It makes me want to cry. Because I desperately need some new leggings because there is a hole square in the crotch of my old ones and I already know this but one of these days someone else is gonna let me know this and it's either going to be a very old woman or a very young boy and they will let me know very loudly in front of an audience of no less than twelve of my peers and five strangers who already have a shaky regard for me, plus like three people who hate my guts and wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.
Costco. Walmart. So.Bright. So many things. So many people. I mean, OK. Costco and Walmart SHOULD make people want to cry. We usually go on Friday night when people aren't there. But the thought of it paralyzes me.
I have already talked to my doctor about this in the context of my headaches because they want to know E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G so I tell her just that and also I have a calendar for things like when and how bad and what kind of headaches I have and also I get to keep track of things like how often my uterus turns against me (often) alongside things like quarterly infoshares and hockey tournaments and dental cleanings and reminders for creative writing submission deadlines (which I miss on the regular). I have told her that things feel like "too much" as in sensory overload. Lights too bright. Sounds too loud. Smells too strong. Clothes feel like they're tearing my skin.
A sensory deprivation tank would be an ideal gift for me.
|Bring me 5,000 pounds of salt and some science goggles. Stat.|
But...aren't all moms' nerves fried? I mean...at some point don't we all want to lock ourselves in the bathroom with the lights off and tell everyone to shut the fuck up?
My doctor said sensory processing disorders are a thing, but they usually show up and get diagnosed in childhood. So...you know. I'm not a kid, so everybody settle down because I'm a full grown ladyperson and that means I must be OK.
Whew. I was worried there for a minute.
Now, if I can only figure out why my ear holes are getting so sore...