Frazzled Fridays and Freakazoid Fruit Loops

Last week, I must have driven two thousand miles, all within the tangled suburbs of Atlanta. There was blistering heat, narrow city streets, gallons of diet Chick Fil-A lemonade, convoluted Google mapping, and that pounding-headache-sensation of "I just wanna get home!" Over and over. And over. The weekend was a blur. When the sun cranked up this morning and I found myself blurry and padding through a pile of dog hair in the bathroom, I just wanted to go back to the dark. I tried to get moving, but couldn't muster it. I smushed myself into the sofa with the dog at my feet. When I woke an hour later, I didn't feel any better. Papa Bear and I went to Chick Fil-A and were treated like royalty. There was plenty of coffee involved, but it still didn't help. We got back home, I tried to work. When I spilled a whole tankard of diet orange drink on my desk, I cracked. Papa said, "Go. Get a nap." But I already did! "Do it again, please." So I did, feeling a little better. Got up and dashed away to do homage to a dear friend's suddenly-and-unexpectedly-departed relative. Then went to see my Mama. 

Being a woman is a unique thing, I don't care what anybody tries to say. There's a twisted part of my brain that I believe is uniquely female. It's not the logical or the smart part. It's a nest of wires that get very knotted up when hormones, hunger and emotions all try to get on the same highway. I called Papa about 5 times and he wasn't answering. In between calls, I was calling our daughter and asking her to tell him to pick up. I was cranky, hangry and feeling sorry for myself. When we finally connected, I wanted to know why he didn't answer. Had he eaten? Yes, of course he had. But why? Why didn't they have deacon meeting tonight? Why did he go ahead and eat? I wanted to know. I could've come home. I didn't know he was there. My tummy hurt. My sugar was low. I'm supposed to be dieting but there's a Dairy Whup on the way home. I already passed up kale salad, and there's a Brownie Extreme Blizzard coming up real soon, right by the highway. It's the last fast food place before home and heavens-to-Murgatroyd you know I'm not passing by home to get a salad.

While I'm busy having my nervous breakdown (still on the road) and hammering my dear husband for no good reason, my precious, level-headed daughter calls and gently pokes the crazy bear woman, talking her off the cliff like the cooing of a dove. There's no full explanation for the state I had gotten myself into by the time I fell into my man's arms when I arrived home. There's no excuse for eating comfort food and chocolate extreme brownie Blizzards when my sugar's already too high. But I do know this... there's a thing called grace that circumvents everything logical and illogical. Grace that is greater than all my sin. God's grace. And then people grace that He chooses to let me enjoy along the fruity, freaked-out highway.