They’re Not In Texas Anymore
Everyone handles stress differently. Some people eat until they forget that they are worried. More accurately, they eat until they are worried about something else, like their stomach pains or gag reflexes. Some people cry. Some people get angry. Some keep busy. Some people are able to ignore it altogether. These people amaze me.
I fall into a different category. I fall apart. I get knots in my back and terrible migraines. So for the past week, I have been fully prepared to wake up with a headache. The knots are there… in full, golf ball sized form. But I have yet to get a migraine. If I believed in luck I would knock on wood. But I don’t. So can you knock on wood for me?
I think I’m having another strange reaction to my stress. The past few nights I’ve been having some strange dreams. I dream a lot. It’s one of the few good things about not sleeping through the night. But lately, they’ve been weird. Remember way back when, when I was lucky enough to hold a week old baby? The mom is a girl I went to high school with named Lindsay and we were able to meet up to chat and drool all over her precious daughter. Two nights ago I dreamt that she forced me to host her daughter’s one year birthday party. She told me that since I was the first non-family member to hold her baby, it was my responsibility. She also told me that I needed to get a bouncy house. Now don’t get me wrong, if Lindsay asked me to host her baby’s birthday party, I wouldn’t skip a beat. I’d probably make Stephen dress up as a clown and make balloon animals. I’d take a cake decorating class and make baby Ashlyn the cutest, yummiest cake in all of existence. I would get TWO bouncy houses and buy all of the kids some fun socks so they didn’t have to jump in that nasty house with bare feet. But I’m sure that a few seconds into the party I would realize that Ashlyn is only one. She doesn’t jump. She probably hates clowns and is scared of bouncy houses. She would be just as excited about a store-bought cupcake as she would for a homemade fancy cake. And, more importantly, I wasn’t the first non-family member to hold her. This party should be in someone else’s backyard!
Last night I had another weird dream. My friend Lyndsey from Kansas City came to visit me and brought some of her co-workers. They were standing in my living room and between each sentence, she took a puff. Smoking in my house is not okay. Smoking weed in my house is punishable by death. My jaw dropped and I told her that I was ashamed of her. She said, “Oh calm down. It’s normal in Kansas City. It’s classy up there.”
So I woke up wondering if KC really is that different from Houston. Does she really live in a completely different world? I also woke up wondering if I know anyone that isn’t named Lindsay/Lyndsey. It’s weird to think about how different we all are.
I remember a couple weeks ago, Pioneer Woman had just hosted a weekend for a bunch of her high school friends. They chatted and ate and took beautiful pictures. At that time, you could relate. Every couple months I get together with a few of my girl friends from high school to chat and catch up. I realized that the crazy ranch PW lives on in Oklahoma couldn’t be that different from Hurst Castle. And then I read a sentence that changed that thought forever. She was discussing the calm feeling in her house once all of her friends had left and she said, “The dishwashers have been started.” Dishwashers? With an “s”??? Seriously, Ree, you lost me. (Only for the rest of the post of course, I went back the next day!)
Okay so maybe Ree and I have nothing in common but certainly my friends and I don’t differ that much. I mean, we all lived in the same place at one point. And then I read an email from my friend Rachel. We are friends from high school. She’s been my friend since I was young, ugly, and awkward… that’s how I know she’s for real.
This is at her wedding. She’s at the top. Since it was her wedding, she got to wear the white dress. I’m the one to the left of her. Wow, look at that. I got sidetracked. Anyways. I got an email from her the other day that, honest to God, had this sentence:
I get crabby if someone screws with my naptime. Like today when my father in law volunteered me to paint signs for a friend with a corn roaster stand at the Ellinwood After Harvest Festival.
I asked Rachel for visual proof of these signs since I’m having a hard time picturing her life. The Rachel I knew was a city girl. She was always quite crafty but she normally just used my walls as an outlet.
I guess we aren’t the same people as we were. We are spread all over the country. The rest of the country is different different than Texas. Hopefully there isn’t a place where weed is classy. But who am I to judge?