Irrational? Yes.

I’m an irrational person, to put it mildly. If I were to put it not-so-mildly, I would say that I’m a touch nutters. It wouldn’t be so bad if my craziness didn’t display itself publicly, but the short and short of it is that it does. The following is a list I’ve compiled of some of my irrational habits, fears and thought processes. Perhaps this will shed some light on some of my more alienating behaviors. Hopefully it'll clear up a few things.

“That’s garbage”

            I have this weird thing with food where once you’ve decided you’re finished, you’re finished and there’s no turning back. I was able to keep this irrationality under wraps until recently. After singing in a concert at the Vancouver Art Gallery this December, a group of us went for lunch at the Earls downtown. Danica and I had our private Earls rendez-vous special (we shared chicken strips and fries. But saying it the other way sounds more fancy). Having finished, I put my napkin on my plate, covering the remainder of my fries. McSteph was sitting next to me and I believe it was she who asked if she could finish my fries, and I gave her what I assume, from the reaction of the group, was my most disdainful look. My reply? “But… they’re garbage!”. That’s right. Once you decide that you are finished your food, what remains immediately becomes garbage. And if you decide to eat any more, you’re just eating garbage. Which is super gross! And I know that the food is the exact same as it was before you decided you were done. All the same, I refuse to eat garbage unless I’m trying to survive some sort of apocalypse.

Teeth

            This one is an interesting fear as it displays itself in two ways. First, baby teeth freak me right out. They are super gross. They’re all small and delicate looking. I’m afraid that they’re going to break or fall out of face they are meant to be rooted in. Which brings me to part two, which is the fact that I have a crippling fear of my teeth falling out of my face. I used to be cool with teeth falling out of my face, back when I was a child and actually had teeth falling out of my face. But that all changed when I was 16 and got braces. My braces were quite the ordeal to begin with, what with needing 3 gum surgeries in order to prepare to bring my bottom teeth forward. After that, it was 2 years, 3 months and 23 days of nightmares that at any moment, my teeth would fall out, still strung together with brackets and wires. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my braces. I still look back at pictures from high school, run my tongue across my perfectly straight teeth and remember fondly how they got that way. But I did not endure more than 2 years of wires cutting the inside of my mouth just to have all my teeth fall out of my face.

Feet

            Let’s just clear this one up. I am not afraid of feet. I just think they are disgusting. I can’t even explain this one. Just… Don’t touch me with your bare feet. Fuck.

Hair on Transit

            This is by far the most embarrassing of all my irrational thought processes because there is no way that this would ever actually happen. Basically, when I ride the bus, I MUST put my hair into a ponytail. I often nap, read, or get lost in thought on the bus. I have a lot of hair and a ponytail is the best way to keep track of it when I’m not entirely present. You know, keep it in one place. It’s easier to keep track of that way. If I DO happen to decide to nap on the bus, that ponytail MUST be covered by a hood. This is because I fear that while I’m sleeping on the bus, someone will try to cut my ponytail off. You know, like you do. If my ponytail is hidden under a hood, no one can cut it off. Heaven forbid I have not brought a jacket or sweater on the bus that has a hood. No hood automatically means no sleep, lest someone cuts my hair off. I have such strong feelings about this that once, I had a dream that David Clark cut my ponytail off on a bus and I was mad at him in real life. Irrational? Well, that’s the point.

Packing

            I have a compulsive need to be prepared. In preparation for a weekend island adventure or choir tour, I pack at least one week in advance. Which is reasonable for me, considering I used to pack at least two weeks ahead. It doesn’t end there. The packing is preceded with several lists as to exactly what toiletries, make-up, and clothing I plan on bringing with me. These lists are edited more vigorously than most of the papers I write for my World Lit degree. I account for all possible weathers and all possible spontaneous outings. I wouldn’t want to trek all the way to UVic for my birthday only to be caught without a costume for an impromptu Hobo-themed party, now would I? The packing is also followed by several attempts to re-pack, finding what exactly is the most efficient and economic packing method. Rolled clothes or laying flat? It’s quite the debacle. Furthermore, when I’m actually living out of a suitcase, I have a compulsive need to be constantly packed. Which means I’m constantly dumping my shit and refolding it. Every damn morning and night. Am I right, Danica?

People Breathing on Me

            Ew. If there is one thing that I absolutely cannot stand, it is when people breathe on me. There is an extremely short list of people that I am willing to share a bed with. That list is made up of my friends Jenna, Lisa, and Danica. Jenna and Lisa because we happen to prefer to sleep facing different ways. In fact, when Lisa and I share a bed, our bodies make a handwritten x that connects at the butt. Danica because she hates people touching her, so she’s never close enough for her breath to make its way to my skin. This is an issue that I’ve had since I was little, which is interesting because I feel like most of my other irrationalities have developed more recently. I don’t even know why this bothers me so much. Which is why it’s irrational, I guess. All I know is that if I ever get married, I’m going to need a second bedroom in case my husband turns out to be a mouth breather.

Strangers

            If I were to describe my social skills in one word, I would have difficulty choosing between “Uneven” and “Poor”. I am a delight if I know the person I’m talking to well enough to be comfortable. On the other side of the spectrum, heaven forbid someone who I don’t know tries to talk to me. I am the worst at small talk. And I don’t understand why people who don’t know me would want to talk to me. This results in many hilarious public transit situations where I pretend at length to be absorbed in my readings of GDP per capita graphs and post-performance mingling sessions where I will tag along behind absolutely anyone who is willing to make small talk for me. My underdevelopment in this region of life has resulted in what I would call a hyper-awareness of which people I do and do not know. If I don’t know you, why are you trying to talk to me? I have difficulties making conversation with people I DO know. Whatever happened to comfortable silences?! Of course, this causes Danica’s mother to lament over the fact that if I’m not willing to meet new people, I’m never going to get a boyfriend. To that I say good point. Though I’m only considering your advice because I know you. If I didn’t, it’d be a polite smile and aversion of the eyes for you, just like everybody else.

Reactance Bias

            If you’ve never read a book by AJ Jacobs, go out and get yourself a copy of The Know It All. It is so good. All of his books are good, but this one is my favorite. This final irrationality does not come from The Know It All. It comes from another book by Jacobs called The Guinea Pig Diaries, or, My Life As An Experiment if you’re reading it in the second edition. This book is basically a collection of writings where Jacobs decided to turn his life into a series of experiments. In one section, Jacobs describes something called the “Reactance Bias”, which basically is an irrational need to do the exact opposite of what you’re told to do. I have this in a big, stupid way. In fact, this is probably the most irrational thing that I do. I have an overwhelming need to be independent, and when someone tells me straight out to do something, I feel like they’re stealing my free will and I refuse to do it. Once, my dad told me to say “thank you” to my mom and I refused. I was going to say “thank you” before he told me to say it, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was doing it just because he told me to. So my poor mother remained unthanked, until later that night when I felt enough time had passed, and that the “thank you” was because I wanted to say it, and not because someone made me. In short, I am a child.