There are so many days when I wish I could go through a day without stressing, without the magic pills, without the apology ballad, without wondering whether someone can see through to the ADD me.
by Jane D.
The mystery man keeps saying, I'm funny. I can't tell what he means, if he’s teasing, if this is a backward compliment. It’s kind of like saying, "I like your hairstyle; it's so 70s-like." He says it in that, "You're very odd, very weird" tone.
It makes me feel funny. I've heard that a lot from the loved ones: "You're so funny." The thing is, I don't even try. Maybe it's the way I talk in race car speed, or the way I change conversations in channel-flipping fashion. One minute I'm chatting about work, the next about what I want to eat, and the next about the dream vacation, or the latest, greatest idea since the Ipod.
The other day I told the mystery man—or should I call him boyfriend—that I was exhausted, too much to do, so stressed out. Then I ended the chat by saying, “Oh, tonight a friend wants to have dinner; want to join?” Silence, and then a resounding order: "Go take a nap."
It’s the first time I’ve been frying-panned by a date. I was stunned, mad, but in retrospect, I realized how funny the whole thing must have sounded. I was so tired and yet I talked about partying. The sister calls it diarrhea, or salad syndrome. She can laugh at it now because she knows about my ADD self, but the mystery man just seemed annoyed.
Lately the tardy syndrome has returned. I'm always running ten minutes behind, if not longer, so much so that the sister said recently she wanted me to meet her at 6:30 for a holiday bash, and not 6:40, since 6:40 for me is really 6:50. I got the message, but felt the sting.
The smart, professional, intelligent self wonders why she can't arrive on time. A couple weeks ago, I told the mystery man that I'd swim with him at 4 pm. I left early but then passed by a pizza parlor, thinking how famished I was. I’d buy a slice for me and maybe him too. It’d be a nice surprise.
Before I knew it, it was 4:05, and then, by the time I arrived on the pool deck, 4:20. That led to the ho-hum "I'm so sorry" ballad. There are so many days when I wish I could just easily, if not swiftly, go through a day without stressing, without having to rely on magic pills, without the apology ballad, without wondering whether a potential lover or date can see through to the ADD me. When I think about it, I look like a deer caught in headlights, frozen in fear and panic. It’s really a terrible way to live and anything but funny.