I’m starting to wonder if my brain has a vendetta against me. There doesn’t seem to be a limit to fears it can invent.
Paul knows that when he leaves the house in the morning and I say, “Be safe,” what I’m really telling him is:
Please don’t get into a massive fireball of a car wreck. Generally speaking, come home alive, preferably not maimed.
He’s pretty cool about it because he’s a freak who sees the positive in life. He always gets the great parking space, so why wouldn’t he see sunshine everywhere? It’s irritating.
I might be pushing my luck, though. The other day I finally confessed a new paranoiac low that may include a trace of the psychotic. He headed out the door to go rowing, and of course I said, “Be safe.”
Then I told him what I really mean:
Please don’t be murdered by a sniper hiding in bushes along the canal.
I know, right? But this fear seems reasonable to me. All they’d have to do is lead him a little.
My mind keeps telling me this is a legitimate concern despite the fact that I’ve never read a news report involving snipers and rowers. So whatever I did to piss it off, it’s not done punishing me. Bastard.
Paul’s finally shocked. Well done, me?