First, I want to say that while being batshit crazy has its upside, there is definitely a downside. Especially if you live in a house with lots of stairs. Sometimes, I head upstairs with a great deal of determination, and by the time I get to my bedroom, a hundred years later, I have forgotten why the hell I came upstairs in the first place. I stand there stunned, my head whipping back and forth as if I am in the throes of a seizure, desperately searching for clues, blinking madly. Finally, I grab a bagel from the sock drawer to make myself believe my time wasn’t wasted and call it a wash. (When you are batshit crazy, starchy foods are way more likely to be found in your sock drawer than in your pantry.)
Secondly, I want to talk about men and the way they respond to bold, beautiful, batshit crazy women. Men either want to marry me or kill me. Sometimes at the same time. Not all men. Some think I’m about as interesting as a slug, but the ones who do respond with some interest want to marry me or kill me within minutes. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve had more marriage proposals than anyone I’ve ever met. But I’ve also had more death threats. When I was in second grade, a boy who had a crush on me pulled a knife on me behind the balance beam. Seriously. What eight-year-old does that? I ratted him out, and he got sent to the principal’s office. I felt sorry for him. I always feel sorry for the men who want to kill me. I have had long, tearful conversations with potential killers, during which they weep and ask me if I know how hard it is to love someone so much you want to kill them. With a voice quavering with unadulterated pity, I always have to admit that, no, I do not.
The pinnacle of my career as stalker bait came when a very attractive young artist wrote a series of poems about chopping me to pieces and putting my head in a box. I’m not lying. Thankfully, the murderous poet was quite talented, so I actually enjoyed reading his death threat. I told him when I was done reading that his work was a tiny bit prosaic, a little too linear, but he was on the right path. He cried.
Other death threats have been less entertaining. Sorting through the death threats is easy, because really, no matter how beautifully someone waxes lyrical about putting your head in a box, the end result is your head is in a box, not attached to your neck, and who wants that? I always eventually run away from the potential killers, even the talented ones (though sometimes it takes me a while–killers can be fascinating chaps).
It’s the marriage proposals that are harder to sort through. Truth be told, I don’t know that I want to get married again. I like to be able to hop out of my bed, throw on my Hello Kitty headband and fuzzy slippers, and jet off to Canada just because. I don’t want to have to wake up a stunned lover and try to explain the dream I just had about fish in Canada, and why it is intricately related to my spiritual quest, and is therefore a sign that I should head to Quebec. Actually, come to think of it, on a train. Not by airplane. I distinctly remember the dream in question featuring a train. (Caveat: I will throw out all my objections to marriage for the guy who shows up in my dreams and talks to me about God, shirts, and sometimes aliens.)
Anyway, as I have been pondering the question of how to sort through the marriage proposals, I have come to realize that all of the people in my family, my actual biological family, have a really weird, witty, sometimes infantile sense of humor. I think these people are also part of my soul family (don’t ask–it’s a batshit crazy woman thing), so it stands to reason that people from my soul family who weren’t born into my biological family will have a similar sense of humor. (Also, they will be fascinated by God and truth and meaning and angels and holy books and possibly rabbit’s feet. But that’s another story.) So in order to sort through the marriage proposals, I’m going to start enacting a little test. When the boy says, “I want to marry you,” I’m going to say, “What do you call a fish with no eyes?” (This fish thing is really working it’s way into this musing. Maybe I should go to Canada.) If he looks confused, I’m walking away. If he says, “I don’t know. What?” he can take me for coffee. If he says, “Fsh,” and laughs so hard he squirts beer out his nose, I’m shopping for wedding cake. (Unless he says he doesn’t like wedding cake. Then we’re back to square one. No soul mate of mine will ever respond with anything less than manic enthusiasm to the prospect of starchy foods.)