I. Hate. Change.
This has been true of me since the womb. And I don't mean that in the hyperbolic sense in which it is usually said. I have literally hated change since the womb.
I already know you don't believe me, so strap in for story-time, y'all!
The story of my birth has been repeated to me so many times that it's almost as if I remember it firsthand. I don't, though; my memory's not that good. But I should warn you that this story was not told so many times as a warm-fuzzy, nostalgic, how-awesome-is-it-that-Rose-was-born? type of story. Oh, no. The story of my birth has been recounted for years for one reason, and one reason alone: to scold me.
Unlike my brother -- who came right on time and practically on his own, and then was fighting and squalling from the moment he hit the chilly hospital air -- I was a late, late baby. I was supposed to be born in September, but I guess I wanted to be my dad's birthday present, because I didn't end up coming out until October, three days after Dad's birthday.
There are many reasons I might have been in there so long. It's possible that the doctor's original estimate for my due date wasn't entirely correct. But that's just like me, to assume that they were wrong, and not me. Never me. I'm always right. To borrow from Gandalf: I'm never late; I always arrive precisely when I mean to.
However, I admit that's probably not why. By the time October 14th rolled around, My Superhero Mom was swelled up like a miniature Hindenberg and ready to pop, suggesting that I'd probably been cooking for quite a while.
When that route fails me, I usually try to blame it on my Dad's family. Dallases have always carried their babies a little longer than the average human woman, giving the term "Momma's boy" entirely new meaning in our family... But that theory usually gets busted because of Brother's eager entry into the world. That and because Mom is not a Dallas (our necks are pretty red, but our family tree does fork... most of the time).
So what I end up left with after all that is the probable reason for my late and dramatic emergence into life: my complete aversion to change. Seriously, when my Dad tells me this story, he always ends up coming back around to how much I hate change.
So here's how it went down:
I'm a fetus, chillin' in My Superhero Mom's kick-awesome womb. I was pretty happy there, yo. You could tell by how much I would dance around in there. Drove Mom crazy. (On a completely unrelated sidenote: I was made entirely out of Mexican food. Seriously. My mom couldn't get enough of it). So of course, I'm sittin' there, treating my mom's bladder like a soccer ball, and thinking, "This is a pretty sweet set-up."
I am a big believer in quitting while you're ahead. If you are in a good situation, there is absolutely no reason for that situation to change in any way. Heck, if you're in an acceptable situation, or maybe even a slightly bad, but tolerable situation, I don't really see the need for change then, either. Change for the better, change for the worse -- doesn't matter, it's all undesirable in my book.
So little fetus-me is thinking there is no reason for me to leave this nice dark, warm place where I am constantly fed and happy. And Mom clearly loves me in here, so I'll just hang out.
Then on October 14th, Mom threw me out. She went to Centennial Hospital and had me induced. Some chemical came along, popped its head into my cozy uteral home without knocking, and promptly evicted me from the premises.
Here we come to my knee-jerk reaction, and the reason for all the scolding. Whenever change foists itself upon me (which, as anyone could have predicted, is unfortunately all-too-often), my automatic response is to curl in on myself and throw a fit. We're not talking about a cute little foot stomping, or a sweet little lip sticking out in a pout. Oh, no. We're talking kicking, screaming, flailing, I-won't-do-it-and-you-can't-make-me explosions of unwillingness.
The first manifestation of this somewhat stupid coping mechanism occurred upon my birth. While I was still on the way into the world -- before my tiny, purple little head had even tasted its first breath of polluted oxygen -- I threw a fit.
Angry with my mother for ousting me, I started breathing long before I was supposed to. It was my only way to spite her. Big surprise -- that did not end well. You see, when you try to breathe when there's no air, it doesn't really work right. So I basically ended up nearly drowning myself... before I was even born.
At this point, my Aunt Karen usually takes over and explains how when I came out all blue and wrong-looking, they rushed me off, but since my Aunt Karen was a nurse at the time, she got to be special and go with me... Now, as a smoker for decades, I don't really think my Aunt Karen has the right to scold me about not breathing right. But she does, all the time. And my parents, grandparents, cousins, other aunts and uncles, and sometimes the random friends they've brought along do it, too. So I guess I shouldn't have breathed in all that fluid.
Of course, I survived, as you probably deduced, being literate individuals. But that's never the point of the story. The point is that I hate change.
I hate change.
And, honestly, I didn't learn anything from nearly drowning myself almost 23 years ago. Anytime anything changes, I still want to breathe prematurely just to spite the powers-that-be. I want to curl up and spin a nice little cocoon, where I'll be able to sleep until the change is over.
I just want it to happen without me -- is that so hard? I wouldn't mind so much if I could just wake up a couple months later once everything's settled again, and adjust to the aftereffects. But noooooooooo, human girls aren't allowed to sleep for a couple of months to escape their problems.
So, here I am, in the midst of my biggest obstacle. I'm changing jobs. My family left for Texas on Monday, and as a result, I'm changing homes. Last night, I even finished one journal and had to change over to the next. Ch-ch-changes!
That's why I haven't written for a few months. Well, and because I haven't had Internet. But mostly because I hate change.
Did I mention that I hate change?
This has been true of me since the womb. And I don't mean that in the hyperbolic sense in which it is usually said. I have literally hated change since the womb.
I already know you don't believe me, so strap in for story-time, y'all!
The story of my birth has been repeated to me so many times that it's almost as if I remember it firsthand. I don't, though; my memory's not that good. But I should warn you that this story was not told so many times as a warm-fuzzy, nostalgic, how-awesome-is-it-that-Rose-was-born? type of story. Oh, no. The story of my birth has been recounted for years for one reason, and one reason alone: to scold me.
Unlike my brother -- who came right on time and practically on his own, and then was fighting and squalling from the moment he hit the chilly hospital air -- I was a late, late baby. I was supposed to be born in September, but I guess I wanted to be my dad's birthday present, because I didn't end up coming out until October, three days after Dad's birthday.
There are many reasons I might have been in there so long. It's possible that the doctor's original estimate for my due date wasn't entirely correct. But that's just like me, to assume that they were wrong, and not me. Never me. I'm always right. To borrow from Gandalf: I'm never late; I always arrive precisely when I mean to.
However, I admit that's probably not why. By the time October 14th rolled around, My Superhero Mom was swelled up like a miniature Hindenberg and ready to pop, suggesting that I'd probably been cooking for quite a while.
When that route fails me, I usually try to blame it on my Dad's family. Dallases have always carried their babies a little longer than the average human woman, giving the term "Momma's boy" entirely new meaning in our family... But that theory usually gets busted because of Brother's eager entry into the world. That and because Mom is not a Dallas (our necks are pretty red, but our family tree does fork... most of the time).
So what I end up left with after all that is the probable reason for my late and dramatic emergence into life: my complete aversion to change. Seriously, when my Dad tells me this story, he always ends up coming back around to how much I hate change.
So here's how it went down:
I'm a fetus, chillin' in My Superhero Mom's kick-awesome womb. I was pretty happy there, yo. You could tell by how much I would dance around in there. Drove Mom crazy. (On a completely unrelated sidenote: I was made entirely out of Mexican food. Seriously. My mom couldn't get enough of it). So of course, I'm sittin' there, treating my mom's bladder like a soccer ball, and thinking, "This is a pretty sweet set-up."
I am a big believer in quitting while you're ahead. If you are in a good situation, there is absolutely no reason for that situation to change in any way. Heck, if you're in an acceptable situation, or maybe even a slightly bad, but tolerable situation, I don't really see the need for change then, either. Change for the better, change for the worse -- doesn't matter, it's all undesirable in my book.
So little fetus-me is thinking there is no reason for me to leave this nice dark, warm place where I am constantly fed and happy. And Mom clearly loves me in here, so I'll just hang out.
Then on October 14th, Mom threw me out. She went to Centennial Hospital and had me induced. Some chemical came along, popped its head into my cozy uteral home without knocking, and promptly evicted me from the premises.
Here we come to my knee-jerk reaction, and the reason for all the scolding. Whenever change foists itself upon me (which, as anyone could have predicted, is unfortunately all-too-often), my automatic response is to curl in on myself and throw a fit. We're not talking about a cute little foot stomping, or a sweet little lip sticking out in a pout. Oh, no. We're talking kicking, screaming, flailing, I-won't-do-it-and-you-can't-make-me explosions of unwillingness.
The first manifestation of this somewhat stupid coping mechanism occurred upon my birth. While I was still on the way into the world -- before my tiny, purple little head had even tasted its first breath of polluted oxygen -- I threw a fit.
Angry with my mother for ousting me, I started breathing long before I was supposed to. It was my only way to spite her. Big surprise -- that did not end well. You see, when you try to breathe when there's no air, it doesn't really work right. So I basically ended up nearly drowning myself... before I was even born.
At this point, my Aunt Karen usually takes over and explains how when I came out all blue and wrong-looking, they rushed me off, but since my Aunt Karen was a nurse at the time, she got to be special and go with me... Now, as a smoker for decades, I don't really think my Aunt Karen has the right to scold me about not breathing right. But she does, all the time. And my parents, grandparents, cousins, other aunts and uncles, and sometimes the random friends they've brought along do it, too. So I guess I shouldn't have breathed in all that fluid.
Of course, I survived, as you probably deduced, being literate individuals. But that's never the point of the story. The point is that I hate change.
I hate change.
And, honestly, I didn't learn anything from nearly drowning myself almost 23 years ago. Anytime anything changes, I still want to breathe prematurely just to spite the powers-that-be. I want to curl up and spin a nice little cocoon, where I'll be able to sleep until the change is over.
I just want it to happen without me -- is that so hard? I wouldn't mind so much if I could just wake up a couple months later once everything's settled again, and adjust to the aftereffects. But noooooooooo, human girls aren't allowed to sleep for a couple of months to escape their problems.
So, here I am, in the midst of my biggest obstacle. I'm changing jobs. My family left for Texas on Monday, and as a result, I'm changing homes. Last night, I even finished one journal and had to change over to the next. Ch-ch-changes!
That's why I haven't written for a few months. Well, and because I haven't had Internet. But mostly because I hate change.
Did I mention that I hate change?
