High Maintenance

I am the worst kind: high maintenance, but I think I am low maintenance.  I had one of those, "why can't I just be happy?" weeks.  This culminated today into a hissy fit on the pitchers mound during my church softball league game, where I intentionally walked an accountant who thought he was A-Rod.  It felt exhilarating to walk him with the most absurdly wild pitches, one of which almost came down on top of my head.  All my demons were racing to the front of my mind and I think I really frightened the opposing team. "This girl has some serious issues" was written all across their faces.  And they are right. I do have issues. But they started it.  This week we were so desperate for activity that we toured the U.S.S. Salem.  Retired battleships have to be at the top of my Most Boring Things to do list. But it was something to explore, so that was enough.  We learned that Myles has a undiagnosed case of claustrophobia and was freaking out below deck. Saying every five feet, "Are we allowed in here!?!?" and  "Did they take the gunpowder out of those torpedos?" I am comforted by the good company of many high maintenance women who have gone before me. Sally, of course. And Marianne Dashwood.

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