A person without crazy is like a cupcake without sprinkles: still sweet, but where’s the excitement? We’ve all got little facets of insanity that color our personalities. The luxury of anonymity covers each because they are just hidden enough to likely never cause a public ruckus. For instance, I brush my feet off three of four times before climbing into bed lest I deposit carpet fuzz on the sheets; when removing a straw from its paper sleeve, I give a microsecond glance down its core to ensure there isn’t a piece of foreign material inside; I always put the emergency break on in the car even when parked in my own flat driveway (my Girl Scout leader lost her gold mica minivan that way – straight down the hill at our campsite). These are quite tidy and rarely ever noticed by others and I like it that way.

Then there are the harmless moments of crazy that wait patiently in the wings for their moment of stardom.

I purchase four gallons of whole milk every week and watch them disappear effortlessly. I’m not sure if that is a lot for two kids or if mine are especially calcium fortified by the intake, but I am single-handedly sending some dairy farmer’s kids to college, I’m sure . Nevertheless before driving home after this particular shopping trip, I took a moment to fill up the sippy cup crowd in the backseat to ensure peace among the troops. When you live in West Bumbleweed, you treat all car trips as small journeys and prepare accordingly.

After getting the kids in the house and unloading the groceries, I discovered, TO MY HORROR, that one of my gallons of milk had already been opened. I immediately proceeded to phone the grocery store to let them know their ENTIRE milk supply was likely compromised and said gallon on my counter was evidence that all the community was at risk. It was not until halfway through this phone conversation that the sane part of my mind spoke up, whispering matter of factly:

You do realize that you opened that jug in the parking lot before leaving the store and that there is only a thin veil between your crazy and the customer service rep on this phone, right?

Before another ounce of crazy sauce could eek out, I quickly thanked the clerk and assured her I would return the jug immediately (never) to the store. Just doing my job as a upright citizen, ma’am. Then stood there a moment in my kitchen and thought, “is this what it’s like to be 85? or senile?” or perhaps just gently humbled.

Time to go fold my crazy up neatly until the next time it decides to talk a quick walk on the outside.

 

 

 

 

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