I have a friend who is the busiest person I've ever known who is still in the real world and not locked behind bars, gently swaying back and forth in a straight jacket, drooling like Niagara Falls. She simultaneously works a full-time job, raises two teenagers, creates entire musicals from scratch, and co-founds charity websites, all in about the time it takes most folks to complete a day. She is absolutely amazing. And, she has developed an eye twitch which she is attributing to overwhelming stress.
This past week I, by osmosis, became her twitching twin sister. All without a job, teenagers, musical or charity work to bring it on. It just started. Out of nowhere. And, it is just a little more than annoying.
When you have an eyelid flutter descend upon you it seems you are never in front of a mirror to check yourself out and there is never someone around who can answer, without giving you tons of grief, the question, "Is my eye twitching?" Likely the answer SHOULD be "No", but most of the people I associate with would respond something like "No. But, is my head spinning?" Smarty pants people seem to gravitate to me.
So, without really knowing what I look like during an attack of the peepers, I venture out to Subway. Now the nature of Subway creates an odd queue of people who are precariously close to one another and who are only a big piece of glass away from the ingredients for every one's sandwiches*. As I approach the line, this cute, thirty-something guy turns and smiles at me**. I smile back and proceed to ask the thousand questions it will take to try to pry out the ingredients for the sandwich my little lunch buddy wants***.
That's when the attack starts. My eyelid starts flipping around like a fish out of water. I grab my eyelashes and pull my eyelid out to see if I can stop the madness. No dice. I rub the eyelid, gently, so as not to disturb my mascara and/or eyeliner. Still twitching.
To my horror, Mr. Cutie decides it is now time to make conversation.
Mr. C to the sandwich makers "No, no. No bell peppers." Turns to me "I just can't stand the little things. I once read they are a gastronomic assault. Think it was in Bon Appetit."
My palpebra is now moving at mach speed. This guy obviously thinks
1. I look like I enjoy reading gourmet magazines and eating****
2. I really care
3. I'm flirting with him because I'M TWITCH-WINKING!
I smile and add "Me either", trying to be polite. He smiles widely and turns away to pay. I spend the rest of the time trying to get a sandwich dressed for my son. After blocking the line to the tune of about 24 people, we end up with ham, lettuce and mayo on wheat.
After I finish paying and turn to the table portion of the store, I realize he is staring at me and my son from his seated perch. And still smiling at us. Quickly assessing the situation I realize: He's an insta-stalker! Add two words to a smile and he thinks we have been friends since Junior High.
I now am doing everything in my power not to look his way because I don't want him to get anymore of a wrong idea than I fear he already has. Frankly, my twitching has reached the speed of sound and I can only imagine what would have happened if I had volunteered that I read the EXACT same story, about bell peppers in Bon Appetit, YEARS ago. He probably would have dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him, with my son as his best man.
Upon hitting the seat in my car, I lock the doors. Pulsating eyelid now veiled behind sunglasses, I feel confident to look up and surreptitously see what Mr C***** is doing. He has stopped looking my way. Thank goodness.
As we drive home I wonder if I overexaggerated this whole situation in my mind. Isn't it entirely possible HE was just being nice, too? Maybe he thought my son was cute******? Probably, my eye problem had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Twitch-O-Matic will never know.
Today I spoke with my under-eye-challenged friend. She is seriously considering a Botox injection to stop her "problem". We discuss the irony of reducing stress vs. covering the symptom with a poisonous substance. We mutally decide poison is the new wonder drug: risky, yes, but worth it*******.
To my twin friend: I hope your eye twitch ends before Botox begins. But, if it doesn't, please be the guinea pig and let me know how that whole thing pans out for you********. One thing's for sure: if you DO have an injection, you won't make any wrong impressions at your local Subway.
In the meantime, I'm doing my darndest to keep stress at bay, starting with a good nap and a right proper bedtime tonight.
More importantly, I'm steering clear of Subway.
TWITCH.
*Am I the only one who has to swallow hard if someone sneezes onto the glass? I mean there is a seam, people! Please cover your mouth!
**Anther, obvious, trait: near-sightedness.
***TOO many choices for a sub-ten-year old to make. You could probably cure prostate cancer faster than a kid can dress a sandwich given so many choices.
Word to Subway: create a "short line" for the short people of this world. No bread, meat, topping, or spread free will. Just plain PB&J or ham and cheese. Period. Until you are old enough to respond to the sandwich artist in sub-30 seconds--for the whole six inches!
****Right you are, on both accounts, sonny boy. That explains a LOT about my body shape.
*****Which now means "Mr CRAZY".
******EW. Let's think of another reason.....
*******An eye twitch can be SO ANNOYING, that, if someone suggested swimming with piranha as a cure, because that would, no doubt, be more stressful than whatever was causing my eye twitch, I would consider it. Kind of like taking sugar for the hiccups. Except for the crazies of the world.
********With my needle phobia and all, I'm about three years away from getting the courage up to do this.
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