There is something wrong with the way my mind works.

Why? you ask.   What's that?  You didn't ask?  Don't care.  I'mma tell you anyway.

I was sitting in class the other night, while some classmates were presenting a presentation.  My mind was wandering.  That makes me sound like a bad student, but I'm not.  I had this sudden flash of, "What would happen to me if I had some kind of accident and my left hand got chopped off?" (I'm extremely left-handed.  As in, my right hand holds the scissors, but that's as productive as it gets.  Some days I wonder if it's even qualified to shift my car out of "park."  Maybe I should move to England.  No, then it's primary resposibility would be flipping the bird at offending drivers. It might screw that up.  Then I would look really dumb.) Anyway.  I thought it might be a good idea to learn to write with my right hand, just in case I lose the left.  It wasn't working.  My right hand has the motor skills of a 3 year old.  No exaggeration.  If I wasn't sitting in the middle of class, I might have investigated the handwriting potential of my feet.  I might do that later. 

So I told my bestie about this thought that I had, and sent a picture of my efforts at being a right-handed woman.  Her response?  "You'be been spending too much time with 6th graders."

It has come to this.  She's completely right.  That is something I would have texted her after a group.  "This one kid was writing with his opposite hand because his good hand might get lopped off someday!"

I'm cutting myself some slack.  I had some medical dog drama.  I've told the story too many times already and I don't want to re-live the event again.  Just let it be said that at some point in his 11 or so years on this earth, the little guy ate a sewing needle, with a length of thread attached.  The doctor performed a miracle and he is home and very upset that I need to give him meds 5 times a day.  It was an intensely emotional week, full of fear, despair that I would lose my guy, astonishment, relief, happiness when we were reunited, aggravation when he decided to be allergic to a medication, near hallucinations due to sleep deprivation, and worry.  He is on the road to recovery and I watch him like a hawk, because if he ate a damn needle, who knows what other freak things he's been snacking on.

I'm owning that fact that I sometimes think like a 12 year old.  I deserve it.  It sucks to be an adult all the time.  This week is proof.