My Overactive Imagination and Her Kid

We all have them - just some more than others. I’ve got a double dose, a couple of scoops on my cone. I believe it’s the geyser where most of my problems shoot up from. See, for the better part of my life I’ve carried an Overactive Imagination. As of late, she ran away, got knocked up and came home giving birth to a healthy bundle of Assumption.

Assumption always assumes and suspects without hard evidence to backup her theories, which is precisely why I’m sick of her. I constantly have to reprimand her, “Why Assumption? Why assume when you can just ask?”

“Why?" she responds. "Because it’s not as much fun to ask.", she says. “Asking provides you no torture, no sleepless nights and, most of all, no intrigue.”

Ah, I see. Asking would be the smart thing to do and Assumption isn’t interested in sanity. Often prone to flights of fancy, she stews in her own juices every so often stirring the ingredients together to make sure she’s brewed the right amount of brouhaha and stupidity.

Just the other weekend I ran into a close friend of mine at a party (ok, another crush, but this time it was mutual). Everyone was dancing, talking and having a ball in general. Out of the blue, Assumption whispered in my ear, “Doesn’t he seem different tonight”.

“No,” I replied, “Now leave me alone.”

Of course Assumption can’t do that - persistent little bugger.
“Come on look at the signs,” she stabbed, badgering me relentlessly. I figured why not just listen to her, perhaps then she’ll go away.

“See, tonight he’s not funny enough, not talkative as usual. He’s being quite moody. Notice how he’s particularly distancing himself from YOU.” With that word she made this annoying sound effect in my ear, you know the one where the word echo’s as if it had been yelled into a long corridor - “Distancing himself from yoooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou, yooooou…”

During the entire night the thought hadn’t crossed my mind - until now, this singular moment. Alarms were sounded and the ticker tape in my brain started spitting out obvious reasons to why he was ignoring me… earlier when he arrived I made eye contact but chose not to say hello immediately; obviously he thought I was slighting him. Never checked my breath before I spoke, it must have blown him away. Maybe my dress was too tight and now he thinks I’m a hussy.

Suddenly my brain worked on the same principles as an Etch-a-sketch. Assumption is shaking it, giggling as she erases years of hard earned emotional maturity and is drawing a jungle gym.

“A Jungle gym?” you say.

Yes, a Jungle Gym, where she’s swinging and leaping out of control like a crazed monkey until finally, in steps her mother, Overactive Imagination to stop her. That didn’t quite help.
The two of them occupying the same space was too much for me to handle. Assumption doesn’t want to go, she’s throwing a tantrum, kicking out common sense, rationalization and my motor skills (I have to claim this because the party was taped and it is my excuse on why I look so bad dancing on camera).

Overactive Imagination finally takes hold of her and starts dragging her out. Assumption isn’t satisfied though, she hasn’t done enough damage - having to have the last word as brats often do.

Loudly I hear her jesting words again, “distancing himself from yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou, yooou.”

From within me came the sound of fuses busting, engines overheating, hoses disconnecting leaking fluids everywhere. I’m running on steam and I need to be cooled off. My eyes’ search finding him once again, only, something’s horribly wrong. Blinking twice I look again but there’s no mistaking it, he’s starting to morph into this Uber-model. Now I’m angered that he’s dancing with other people, smiling and chatting and toasting, all of which is what a party consists of. But understand there’s this steam train racing in my head, wheels moving faster, faster, past the speed of light - so fast in fact that common sense didn’t have a chance jump on. My heart does flips, I mean, I liked him before, but now it’s different. He is buried treasure that I’ve long searched for, a diamond in the rough, needle in the haystack, sun and the stars, alpha and omega.

I HAVE LOST IT, replaying back every conversation that we’ve ever had, judging every pause, every hesitation.

Did they mean anything?

Were they signs of us going wrong?

With every supposed mistake I become uglier and he gets better looking.

I remember plans that I made and broke, some without apologies - Boom! six-pack for him, dry frizzy hair for me.

Recalling times when I laughed funny, or talked too loud. God I must have seemed like an idiot -
Crooked teeth for me, a smile so white you need shades for him.

At this moment I’m sure that I have always been a creature and that he took pity on me. Tonight was the night he couldn’t take it anymore. I am an unkind, unattractive and thoughtless human being. He hates me, and-who cares! I never liked him much anyway. Who needs him!

Making my way over to him thinking I’m going to clobber him for making me feel so bad, I hear…“You wanna dance?”

“What?”

“Do you want to dance?” he repeats. It’s him, and he’s asking me to dance.

“Yeah, sure” I say.

Ten seconds into the music and I swear he says laughingly, “You seem a little off tonight, what’s the matter, am I not paying you enough attention?” he says as he pecks me on the cheek. Laughing, I toss my head back as he turns me in a spin. “No. You must be imagining that,” said convincingly as we pause to have our picture taken. Getting back into step I think of nothing but the dance letting my movement blend with his.

I’m pretty sure you’ve had plenty of days like this. Absolutely nothing was wrong but you’re Imagination creates something and goes wild with it. Although this was a very extreme case, I think I got a hold of some bad food or something. Lesson to be learned-as women we tend to over think situations. We can be so abstract in our behavior – a living Picasso stuck in a painting – our minds lost in blocks of paint, one eye near the bottom of the canvas near the title “Woman Lost”. Hung on the wall examined and analyzed by all, all the while, just hoping to overhear the definition to this disease, to be released from the madness. Meanwhile the guy isn’t even on the same page; he doesn’t even have a clue what’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that they’re such simple creatures – if they only knew.