Itchy Palms and Sticky Fingers

Something pops in my brain the second I’m told not to do something. Say a server brings me a plate in a restaurant and tells me to be careful because the plate is hot. I promptly touch the plate, burn my finger and scream. Everyone proceeds to look at me like I’m an idiot. Well…..that could be a valid argument.

I’ve had way too many medical tests, procedures and surgeries in the past 8 years. Most of them require that I didn’t eat or drink after midnight the night before. I swear, within 10 minutes of midnight, I’m choking, feeling like mouth is stuffed with cotton and just generally being incredibly dramatic. If I was allowed to have water, I guarantee that I wouldn’t have been thirsty at all. Is it the rebel in me? 🤷🏼‍♀️

The past couple of weeks have been hell. Not because I’ve been sick. It’s not due to lack of groceries or toilet paper. Believe me, I’ve been shoveling the food in just fine. And, I’m able to go to the bathroom just fine too, thank you. But, I cannot keep my hands off of my damn face! I never realized just how much I like my face. As soon as I enter a grocery store or anywhere, I feel like I HAVE to touch my face. I know I can’t. I shouldn’t. I won’t. Two minutes later as I’m putting Lucky Charms in my basket, I realize that I am scratching my chin. In the next aisle, as I’m looking at Nutty Buddy bars and thinking that 6 in the box should last a week (ha!) I realize that I’m rubbing my temple. By the time my basket is full of the necessities (including 3 boxes of Blue Bell Fudge bars), I’ve come to the conclusion that I am, indeed, an idiot. I’m an idiot that not only has put 2,375,983 calories in my cart, but I’ve also tugged my earlobe, scratched my eyebrow, tapped my forehead, twisted my hair, picked my nose and chewed my fingernail. I realize that a stocker is looking at me like I’m an idiot. At least I have hand sanitizer in my car. That’s a positive, right?

We leave the grocery store and head by the hospital because I need to have my blood drawn. They take my name and hand me a mask when I walk in. There’s a wait, so I play with my phone while thinking that I need to sanitize said phone. They call my name and wave me over to registration. I give them all information and grab a pen to sign my life away. She hands me 10 or so pages and tells me to sign or initial. I take the packet, sign the first page and……… I MOVE THE MASK TO THE SIDE AND PROCEED TO LICK MY FINGER SO I CAN TURN THE PAGE. What. The. Hell. I am not stupid. I KNOW I don’t want to catch this ‘Rona bitch. Why do my hands work before my brain catches up? I look up and the clerk is looking at me like I’m an idiot.

Now do you see why I hate to leave my house. My mind automatically does this horrible anxiety dance and my hands just do whatever the hell they want. I’m going home where my dogs know that I may be an idiot, but they love me and my spastic hands anyway.

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