I’ve been on a Steve Martin kick the past couple of weeks. It started with me borrowing Shop Girl on my Kindle. I wanted to try Amazon Prime’s Lending Library, I liked Shop Girl the movie, so I decided to try the book. LOVED the book. The characters were so interesting and the story was beautifully written. So, I decided to try another of Steve Martin’s books–The Pleasure of My Company. I finished it in two days. The characters and story were equally as captivating as Shop Girl. The protagonist of this book is a little cray cray, and it made me think of my own OCD tendencies. There is a part in the book where the dude has to keep rechecking his alarm clock and it was like reading a page out of my own diary. I remember one of the first times Steve slept over when we were dating (Steve, my husband, that is–not Martin) . I went to go set the alarm. This can take a full 3-4 minutes. First I have to make sure the time is set for AM and not PM. The button click click clicks as I check AM, PM, AM, PM, AM, PM, AM. It’s on AM, right?? Next I have to make sure the volume is high enough. This requires me to turn the knob all the way to full blast, until I hear the tick that the knob doesn’t turn any higher, then 1/3 of a turn down to the perfect volume. But I don’t trust that I did it right the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Suffice it to say, there are a lot of ticks. Click, click, click, click. Tick, tick, tick, tick. By the time I rolled over to go to sleep, Steve was looking at me like, “You’re gonna stab me in my sleep, aren’t you?”

Somehow this OCD has passed and I no longer have to spend five minutes setting my alarm clock each night. Which is a good thing, except now I am late to work every morning. Though that habit has died, other neuroses remain. Small ones, like if someone moves the stapler on my desk. All the while they’re talking to me, I’m counting the seconds until they leave so I can move it back. Then there are bigger ones, like the time I almost lost it on a plane because everyone was sucking up all the air! But for the most part, I think I can pass as normal.

About this time last year, though, I really did go a little crazy. Or, at least I thought I was. Life was getting a little overwhelming, and the way I handle stress is to internalize it, avoid it and push myself harder to get past it. Not the best laid plan, I realized as my internal stress materialized into external panic attacks. Did you know that panic attacks have a way of making you feel like you’re about to die or go crazy? For real. Your heart pumps so hard and so fast that you think you’re having a heart attack. Then the doctor tells you that your heart is perfectly fine, that you’re just suffering from panic attacks and anxiety disorder. You only half believe him, so now you’re walking around, paranoid about your heart exploding, and feeling crazy because you’ve been told you have a “disorder.” The good news is that over the past year I didn’t die or go crazy. Not any more crazy than I already am, anyway. I’ve worked hard at removing unnecessary stress from my life and trying to maintain a healthy work/play balance. Still, every now and then I feel the crazy starting to bubble beneath the surface–on a particularly hard day when work is annoying and the toddler is clingy and the husband expects me to cook or take a shower or some other nonsense. But I’ve gotten pretty good at taking a time out as soon as I feel that anxiety creeping up, and so far I’ve kept the panic attacks at bay. But should one appear, I’m more prepared to face it.

My doctor told me to try and remember that panic attacks last about 10-15 minutes tops, and that I just need to ride ‘em out. He said that panic attacks are basically a fight or flight adrenaline rush, and that the body’s adrenaline naturally starts to burn out after 10 or 15 minutes. But that’s for a healthy, fit person. Apparently adrenaline burns out quicker the less fit you are. My panic attacks last  approximately 3.1 seconds, give or take a tenth of second. I’m not exaggerating. So basically that means I’m exceedingly out of shape.

Never before have I been so grateful for my fat ass.

Steve’s job takes him out of town several times a year. The first time I was left alone, a lizard snuck in through the back door and I freaked the eff out. I called Steve and made him stay on the phone with me while I built an elaborate trap in the kitchen at one in the morning. He wanted me to spray it with Raid. Raid? I’m pretty sure Raid wouldn’t do anything but piss it off. He suggested squashing it with a shoe. Uh, no. I decided to trap it between shoe boxes and a stack of magazines. Then I called my friend to pick me up because I didn’t want to risk waking up with an escaped lizard on my face.

Lizard debacle aside, I’m already afraid of the dark as it is. So whenever Steve’s away, I sleep with all the lights on. I normally sleep with a night light anyway, but extra protection is needed when I’m home alone. Because ghosts only come out when it’s dark, right? I believe this. Just like I believe that I need to avert my eyes when passing by a mirror at night because of Bloody Mary. You can also find me covering my eyes and plugging my ears whenever commercials for scary movies come on the TV.

Sadly, I’m not making any of this up.

Eventually, I got used to being home alone and didn’t have to call my friends to rescue me in the middle of the night. Now I look over my shoulder only a couple of times when walking through dim hallways and I sleep with only my one little trusty night light on. Yeah, I still avoid mirrors and wrap myself in an armor of blankets when I go to bed, but that’s just good sense.

So yeah, I’ve gotten pretty good at being home alone. So good, in fact, that the last time Steve returned from a business trip, I informed him, “So, I’ll be alright if you ever end up leaving me.”

And he was like, “Huh? What? Can I at least put my luggage down before we get into whatever craziness you’re talking about this time?”

This week the tables have turned and for the first time I’m the one away on a business trip. It’s weird being on this side of the video chat (I’m so jealous that Steve gets to be the one tickling Lily’s cheeks with kisses!). Even though it’s a work conference, I’ve beein looking forward to three uninterrupted nights of “me time.” And it has been nice. I don’t have to cook or clean, I can eat and watch what I want, I don’t have to be at the beck and call of a midget tyrant. But I already miss my family like crazy, and it’s only been thirty-four hours.

I guess I wouldn’t be alright on my own, if it means being without them.

I was up late again last night working. Woke up this morning in a haze. Got Lily settled on the couch with breakfast, teddy bear, blanket and Blues Clues, then stumbled over to the shower. The water was barely lukewarm when I stepped in. So I turned the knob. Still no hot water. The hell? Maybe someone was using the water? Even though they know to not so much as flush a toilet while I’m in the shower? Even though I put up a sign when I shower so the boys know to not even THINK about using the water? Was Rick washing the coffeepot? Was X brushing his teeth? Don’t they know I’m showering? Don’t they know I’m tired and running late? I stood there shivering. And annoyed.

“Babe?” I called through chattering teeth.

“Babe!”

“BABE!”

“STEEEEEEEVE!”

He comes shuffling in, “What??”

“The water is cold. Is someone using the water?”

He goes to check.

“No one’s using the water.”

“Well, it’s freezing! Can you check the water heater or something?”

As he goes to check, I play with the knob. I turn it as far counter-clockwise as I can. Nothing. In fact, it feels like the water is getting COLDER. Then I think, maybe it will work if I try to turn the knob clockwise and then back counter-clockwise? Like pressing ctrl+alt+del to reset a computer? I don’t know why I think this will work, but I try it. As soon as I turn the knob clockwise, the water starts warming up. And it finally dawns on me. I was turning the knob the wrong way the whole time! Seriously? I’ve lived in this house for over five years, and I suddenly forgot how to use the shower? It was just so ridiculous that I started silent laughing uncontrollably until I heard Steve coming back.

“I turned the temperature dial to a little warmer. But I didn’t want to turn it too much because it has a warning that making it too hot can scald the scalp. Did it work?”

“Yeah, it’s a little warmer now.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth just yet, not after I woke him up and made him tinker with water heaters before he even had time to rub the crust from his eyes. But as soon as he left the bathroom, I couldn’t stop giggling at what a fool I made of myself, hollering through the house all crazylike. So embarrassing.

Note to self: turn the water heater temperature back down before someone’s head gets boiled.

Let me just preface this story by admitting up front that I’m a scaredy cat. I know this. I’m scared of the typical stuff like bugs and mice, of the dark and of strange night time noises. I avert my eyes when previews for a scary movies pop up on TV and my legs tingle with fear whenever I step foot on a balcony or drive across an overpass. We all have our little phobias, right?

I do, however, have a not so little phobia of needles. This fear is pretty legit since I usually get stabbed no less than three times for simple blood tests because they can never find my veins. The nurses like to joke, “Do you have any veins in there?” Every single time. While they dig the needle around in my arm. Hardy har har. And the dentist? As soon as they start applying topical cream to numb my mouth, my brain starts shouting, “Needle coming! Needle coming! Mayday!” Admittedly, the actual pain of the needle is practically nothing. But the thought of the needle is what gets me every time. So, when the dentist starts poking around, I try to distract myself. Try to think of something else, anything else. But all I can think is, “Needle. Long, sharp needle. Long, sharp needle coming at me.” And my butt cheeks get a good workout from being clenched for the next hour.

Also, I’m crazy claustrophobic. Crazy like I think I’m going to suffocate even if I just have a stuffy nose. Crazy like, while flying back from my honeymoon in Hawaii, all I kept thinking was, “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! There’s not enough air in here for all of us! Every one’s breathing up all the air!” and “Are the flight attendants trained to handle someone who is about to freak the eff out? Cuz I don’t think they’re ready for me.”

But, as much as possible, I try not to pass my personal neuroses on to my children. I try not to let them see me freak out over spiders and shots. I avoid talking about my phobia of planes or about my hypochondriac tendencies in front of them. There is, however, the occasional slip.

The other night X wanted me to teach him how to make those Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls. I ain’t gonna lie, it startles me when that dang cardboard can pops. As I’ve illustrated, I scare easy. Jack-in-the-Box toys startle me every single time, even though I know what’s coming. So when X goes to peel back the wrapper, which will inevitably result in a POP, I instinctively cover my ears. He stops mid-peel.

Him: What are you doing?

Me: It’s gonna pop.

Him: What do you mean?

Me: When you peel back the wrapper, the can pops open.

Him: Wait, like how?

Me: It just pops. Don’t worry, just open it.

He holds it far away from himself.

Me: Don’t point it at me!

Him: Why?! Are the ends going to shoot out??

He’s still walking toward me.

Me: Get away from me! Go over THERE!

Him: Aw, man. Hold on.

He leaves to his bedroom. After a few moments he returns.

With ear plugs.

I just about die with laughter.

Him: Okay, now I’m ready.

He opens the can. POP! He flinches.

Him: Whoa!

He’s now inherited my fear of Pilsbury Cinnamon Rolls, as well as my frizzy hair. Sorry, son.