Nerves

I was working on this great post about fortune cookies, because I got a few yesterday. But I'm not in the mood. Trust me, though, when it's done, it'll be great. You'll laugh. Okay, no, I'm sorry. I shouldn't promise that. It's like prefacing a story with, "Funny story...." like some people do. You build someone's expectations and then let them down. I won't do that to you, but I will finish the fortune cookie post later.

Right now I'm—to use a fantastic, rarely utilized expression (except by senior citizens, ladies who mix society with my grandma and who have names like Vida, Ruth Graham and Mildred)—a bundle of nerves. I can make light of it here, but I tell you what. My mom just called me to ask about some pillowcases. You see, she's changing the sheets on all the guest/queen beds for my sister's and their husbands. They're flying in for the wedding, and last night she was looking for the bed sheets' matching pillowcases. One of them was on my pillow and the other was in my dirty clothes. She told me she'd use some other sheets, or something, after I took the one off my pillow to give to her last night. So I told her I'd wash them tonight and then I put the pillowcase back on the pillow (what a charade!). This all happened last night.

So this morning she calls and asks where those pillowcases are. I tell her one of them is in my dirty clothes and the other is back on the pillow.

"Why'd you do that?" She asks.

"Because you told me you weren't going to use them."

"No I didn't." She responds. And her voice isn't fierce or anything. It's just firm, like she has video evidence that this isn't how the conversation went (if only life were like Arrested Development). But I nearly crumble. At that moment, I could have burst into tears. Burst, I tell you. Instead, only my will to fight crumples like a flan in the cupboard (to steal a great metaphor from a top-notch comedian). Under normal circumstances I would put up a considerable fight over who said what.

"Oh," I say, weakly, and swallow the lump in my throat.

And that's that. She impatiently asks where my dirty clothes basket is (hiding shamefully behind the brown, slat doors of my closet) and we end the call.

As you can plainly see from this story, I'm in no mind-set to contemplate the vagaries of the fortune cookie. You know? You think you're dealing with something just fine, like my father dealing with the death of his good friend Jim (my poor dad, he found Jim's body cold as a slab of ice in his apartment). My dad carried on as before, seemingly untouched by the death. Untouched, but snappish as a crab with quick bursts of temper here and there. So we all knew he wasn't doing so well about the death. He was, in a strange fashion, mourning.

Well, that's me. I guess. Death, marriage and moving are some of the highest stressors for a human. And I thought I was just fine—but I'm not. I feel like I could snap at any moment. I must reiterate that I'm not questioning my decision to marry Stoker. I love him. Adore him. He's my best friend and I can't think of a better companion to spend the rest of my life with. But shit. The wedding's tomorrow. I guess I'm stressed about it anyway.

Stay tuned (what?) for the fortune cookie post.