Hot People Can't Eat Just One

If I was going to pick the psychological disorder I'm most likely to suffer from, I'd probably pick depression nine times out of ten. My last post, I thought, was a pretty good illustration of that (thanks, to my commenters on that one, btw. Nearly all the kick in the ass I needed. Plus this one, which pretty much pulled me up out of it.) Regardless of whether or not I ACTUALLY suffer from depression, this post is about what I think I'm not. I don't think I have an addictive personality. I don't think I have any personality disorders. But a sober(ish) inventory of my life this past weekend suggests to me that I'm both an addict AND a hoarder.

Problem 1

I'm addicted to having things to do. There, I said it. I know. It's a problem. Most of you are probably reading this thinking that I'm crazy (actually, that's my point...); having things to do is totally normal. I'm not going to go through the laundry list of activities I've engaged in over the past few months (because I've done it many, many times already). But I've said yes to so many things that,

a. in order to do my taxes and spend some time with my parents I spent approximately 11 hours in a car, 5 having dinner with one parent, 2 having a fight with another parent, 3 hours doing my taxes, and only 6 hours sleeping so that I could be back in time on the same weekend to rehearse with some vocalists whom I was accompanying in the local music festival. Please note the car to sleep ratio there...

and,

b. my involvement in so many activities in the last month or two was so intense that more than one person thought I might do actual physical harm to myself in the completion of these activities.

So...maybe that's not normal. And though things are winding down for the summer, I don't find myself completely ready for relaxation, beaches and drinks like this:

(even though my boyfriend has admonished me and instructed me that I am not permitted to participate in any sort of extra-curriculars until September). I'm actually getting kind of anxious. Surely, here's JUST ONE MORE THING I can do or get involved in. A community garden? A book club? A quilting class? ANYTHING?

I've taken up crafting to fill the void. And to further illustrate my pathological need for things to do, let me describe my latest crafting venture. I had decided to make flower brooches for my mother and my boyfriend's mother as a belated Mother's Day gift (yeah, yeah...this "things to do" kick also means that I'm chronically late with EVERYTHING). It's pretty, and that's all that matters. See? I had none of the materials or tools necessary for this job. The result was that after work, I went racing to three different stores to get all the materials I needed. Despite the fact that I live in a reasonably well-appointed town, amenities-wise, there was one item I couldn't find. This resulted in massive panic, manifested by a sweaty-browed, arms-flailing sprint to my favourite yarn shop to inarticulately gesture and holler for the missing item. She didn't have it and that was a DISASTER (though totally understandable, because the missing item wasn't yarn, which is what she sells).

The point is, even when my "thing to do" isn't a previously scheduled, organized group activity, I WANT TO DO IT RIGHT NOW. I need to have my fix. See? Problem.

Problem 2

I cleaned my bedroom yesterday. Not even my whole apartment. Do you know how many empty, opened envelopes I found in there? More than one. Like, a grocery bag full. WHY? And hole- and run-ridden pantyhose? Like, a MILLION PAIRS. I don't even remember when I decided that the best course of action for both of these items was to let them lie (on the dresser, on the floor, IN THE BED[?!?!]) rather than toss them directly into the garbage. Because that's what both of those things are. Garbage. Similar items include safety pins, hair elastics, hairballs (helpfully placed in the middle of the bedroom floor by my cat). See? Problem.

Does anyone know of a detox/intervention program for loonies with my kind of problems? Anyone? Yeah, thought not. Anyway, I figure I could quit anytime I want. I just have to subscribe to cable television again (because its hold is WAY more powerful than any community garden committee), and develop a further hoarding habit for attractive containers and dust bins. See? Problem solved.

Hot People Contain Their Glee

First of all, I'm learning that not a lot of heterosexual males around these parts share my devotion to that television show. Alas, I indulge that guilty pleasure alone, ensconced in the comfort of a throw blanket in my office staring, eyes-wide, at my computer screen.

But that's not really what I mean. I had a date last night (this time I KNOW it was a date). I was pretty effing excited about a. the date in general...cuz...I mean, well, you know how it's been, and b. the person with whom I was having the date. He's pretty cute. And pretty sweet. And I'm pretty sure the date went really well. And...well, see here's the problem.

I am having a REALLY hard time playing it cool. I feel as though my previous experience hasn't really prepared me for this "dating" thing. Having had one major relationship spanning ages 20-25, much of my formative dating years were missed. And that relationship began kind of like this: First, we didn't know each other. Then we knew each other and we were (more-or-less) in a relationship. There wasn't really that getting-to-know-you dating period where you know you like each other but you don't spend every waking minute together, which is where I'm pretty sure I am now. Since that relationship ended, sure, I've had dates, but since I think REALLY highly of myself and have super high standards (maybe THAT's why I'm still single) I really just wanted those dates to be over and never happen again. So I can't even draw from previous fledgling dating experience because it nearly always flopped from the first moment.

I'm also a little concerned about the hotness goal now. I've been as much as told that I've "attained hotness," but as I've said before, I don't feel really good about deciding that I've reached a goal because someone (even a boy I really like) else told me I'd done it. That's not to say I didn't REALLY enjoy hearing it, but I think you know what I mean.

As a result, I'm pretty much totally at a loss. I am simultaneously deliriously happy, terrified, tentative and reckless. And I'd really like all those feelings to ensconce themselves within my psyche in a manner similar to my ensconcement of myself for private Glee viewings. I think they're failing at this.