Because I don't like admitting I'm neurotic, I like to blame others. That's one of those quality habits I picked up as a child.
But it's becoming debilitating. I sometimes wonder if I'm human. Mom?
I'm told, "I'm out golfing. My phone is almost dead, so it's home on the charger. I'll call you later," and hear, "I'm spending the day with the beautiful blonde from class and am ignoring your phone calls."
Even better, "I want to go out tonight, maybe bowling. Or out for some drinks." And I hear, "Boobs, boobs, boobs. Everywhere."
What is wrong with me? Anyone? I blame it on long distance. I do. That and I'm quite imaginative. Mix together an hour-and-a-half drive, imagination and a neurotic girlfriend, and you get, well, me. Congratulations.
Alright, so I'll cut myself some slack. I don't literally, after much contemplation, think he's with the beautiful blonde from class or surrounded by drunken boobs. However, it's instinct for that to be the first thing to cross my mind. And why? I don't know.
But I'll stop nothing short of tattooing his love and affection onto my forehead to make the instinct stop. It's ludicrous, really. There, I said it. I am ludicrous. Consider this my promise to knock-it-the-Hell-off.
A friend told me recently, "There's no need to worry. The things you can change, you change. The things you can't change are out of your control. So why worry?" Good advice, good advice. But do you know what I heard: "Blah, blah, blah."
OK, knocking-it-off. Starting... now.