I'll Show You My Crazy

Aaaaannddd....fade to psycho. For real. I haven't been this nuts since the Bad Old Days. We're talking emotional, irrational, super-sonically oversensitive. My best girlfriend would probably ask me if I was pregnant. Now that I think about it, people have been asking that a lot lately. Well, folks, I am. In a manner of speaking.

I'm pregnant with a whole new idea of myself. I think I'm having morning-noon-and-night sickness. Only it's not sporadic puking and nausea. It's mental illness. The past few days have been a nutso roller coaster of rage, fear, euphoria and insight. And the carny doesn't appear to be letting me off the ride. He keeps yelling, "You wanna go fassssss-tahhhhh?"

Saturday, I was enraged because Boyfriend ran too fast on our training run. I chalked it up to an inflamed ego (he always runs faster than me...even though I train way more diligently. Damn his Y chromosome, Steve Prefontaine-style natural talent and apparent need to set land speed records on a casual Saturday run).

So, I took the classy road and made bitchy passive-aggressive comments. Then I made mac & cheese. I used a metal spoon to stir it in one of Boyfriend's precious pots. Which is a no-no. He called me on it. I flipped out. You see, Boyfriend doesn't buy a lot of stuff, but when he buys it, he buys the best. And he expects his things to be treated with respect. This is very unlike me, who buys cheap IKEA crap and abuses the shit out of it. I have also long suspected that he loves his dark-stained hardwood floor more than he loves me. He says he doesn't. I'm not so sure.

So the day wasn't going well. I jumped into my car and headed to rehearsal. Where I kissed a woman for the first time in my life. Unless you count that time in high school when my friend Jen asked me to help her come out of the closet. She wanted to see what it was like. I was game. Only she freaked right out as soon as our lips touched. Which was about as hot and heavy as things got in rehearsal. My very first lesbian kiss was the most chaste non-issue of a kiss I have ever experienced.

But, other than the boring kiss, that rehearsal confirmed something for me: I fucking love this. I love making creative work. I love rehearsing. I love watching other people rehearse. I love talking through scenes and scripts. I am so blissfully happy in a studio, it's crazy. At one point, I looked around and thought, "Holy shit. I'm working right now. This is my job." And I almost did a spontaneous happy dance right then and there. Glorious.

So, I celebrated by coming home and smashing one of Boyfriend's Reidel chardonnay glasses on the sacred hardwood. I was so irrationally, psychotically upset at myself that I stomped up the stairs and put myself to bed. It took a half hour before Boyfriend realized I was not coming back downstairs to enjoy the chocolate I had demanded as I swung my arms wildly (thus knocking the world's most expensive chardonnay glass onto the floor).

I appear to be locked in some form of internal mortal combat. Between Accepting and Resisting. Ego and Artist. Gnashing psychotic and enlightened being. Who will emerge victorious? Stay tuned.