Turns Out Weather Instability Brings Out the Best in My Mood Instability

Today is one of those days in which I swear I am frickin' crazy.

I blame it on the frickin' snow. It's mid-April, and it's snowing.

(And, I must mention, I'm really, really sick of writing about the damn weather.)

I was going to write about how I've been a Grumpysaurus since it decided to stop being April and start being November all over again, until today when I woke up to rain and my mood melted and I became a Sappysaurus. I went onto MySpace and saw an old friend had written me and almost cried because I was so happy to hear from him. And, of course, there are a few people out there I've written who haven't written me back, and for some reason it got to me today and made me very sad and contemplative about my life. Then, I was folding laundry - laundry, the ONE and ONLY chore I seem to (sometimes) complete each weekend - and I got misty-eyed folding my husband's manties. Why? Don't know. Maybe it's because I felt very honored to be taking care of him in this little way. Or, maybe it's because I am so disappointed...I used to fold boxer shorts, then it changed to boxer briefs, and now it's your standard tighty-whities. (At least they're Calvin Klein, and everytime I see them I flashback to the Back to the Future scene in which Marty asks Loraine why she keeps calling him Calvin, and she replies, "It's written all over your underwear.") Or, maybe it's just because I'm retarded.

Now the rain has changed to snow, and my mood, too, seems to have frozen into a harder emotion: almost rage, but with less anger...actually, not really anger or rage at all, but more like an energetic impatience or irritation on speed. Yeah, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, but if you were inside my head right now you wouldn't be making any sense, either.

On top of that, melancholy took hold of me when for some unknown reason I started thinking about how unspecial I am in the whole scheme of things. As I'm sure most people do, I used to have these absurd dreams in my head of how my life would turn out. First of all, I was sure I was a prime example of "The Ugly Duckling." Sure, in my mind I wasn't very attractive, but one day? ONE DAY something would happen to the world and everyone would suddenly realize how beautiful I was. All those boys I had crushes on for years and YEARS who didn't even know I existed would suddenly notice me and be overcome with sadness that they missed out. Because also? Also, my personality would flourish - I'd be the funniest, wittiest, smartest, most interesting person people had ever had the pleasure of encountering. And I can't forget about my talent. The world would discover this GREAT TALENT I had and it would bring me fame and glory. This great talent varied from singing to drawing to writing to stumbling across the cure for cancer while flipping through Cosmopolitan. Really, it didn't matter what my great talent was going to be - the point was that I was going to be special. I was going to stand out from the crowd and everyone would love me and I would love them. And, of course, no fantasy life would be complete without lots and lots of money. I'd be gorgeous, charming, have some awesome talent that would land me some sweet gig doing something fabulous, and I'd be damn rich.

Now it feels like eons later, and the fantasy I'd had of my life seems laughable. Here I am, late twenties, feeling much more attractive than I used to but, like most women, not feeling pretty enough (my face still breaks out, I hate my complexion, I will never ever have a nice tan [that will most certainly be an early summer post, right after the first person of the year makes the terribly creative and oh-so hilarious comment along the lines of, "hey Casper, why don't you cover those legs up, you're blinding me"], and I won't even get into my hairiness, as I would hate to make you lose your appetite for dinner), no strong talents, sitting at my computer on a crappy Saturday afternoon ranting about I-don't-know-what to the five whole people who read this thing.

And probably after they read this post? I'll be down to three readers.

So, SHOCKINGLY, I've realized that Radiohead is right: you really do do it to yourself, and that's what really hurts. The reason why those boys never noticed me, and the reason certain people may not be interested in communicating with me? Um, could it be the fact that I never tried to get anyone's attention, that I tried my hardest to blend in with the crowd and not be noticed, and that I blew certain people off a little too easily? And great talents? Well, some are God-given, but some can be honed and did I ever hone? The only talent I truly have perfected is being lazy.

What makes me feel really awful, though, is the fact that I can't let myself just be happy. Because really? I have a great life. My husband is over-the-top wonderful, I have a fabulous family and set of friends, my job is good, my house is nice, my health has been decent - I have no drama. Having drama is one of my biggest fears, and I can honestly say I am thankful to have a steady, reliable, good-to-me lifestyle. In the whole scheme of things, I have it pretty darn good. But, I'm a spoiled brat and still get in my funks where I think everything sucks. I was wrong; laziness isn't my only talent, for I am also very exceptional at focusing on the negatives.

Today is just one of those days. An "I'm-completely-out-of-my-mind-and-possibly-need-to-be-medicated" days. A day in which Stephen ought to be damn grateful for his Saturday afternoon part-time job because that means he isn't having to sit at home and put up with me and the crazies that are unwelcome houseguests of my mind. Fortunately, my mood will probably continue to morph and I'll be on cloud nine here in about five minutes. I'm just talented like that.