It appears that I have a complete inability to listen to my gut.
I don't know when I'm full, so I keep eating until I am a proud Mumma of a glorious food baby. I complain. I moan. I decide to exercise to boost my metabolism, which makes me hungrier, so I eat more. And the circle begins.
I know that purchasing cinema sweeties is a bad idea...but I do it anyway. And spend £6, that's right - the cost of a cinema ticket on a small coke and pic'n'mix jazzles (the white buttons with sprinkles). I only had one type of sweetie (oh and chocolate raisins, that were actually peanuts in the wrong contained. Vue - I am glad I don't have allergies) so they should give me some sort of discount, it was hardly a mix. Pah! ... Should've bought your own sweeties, I hear you cry. Yes. Yes I should.
I know that there are better fitting dresses out there, but I purchase an 'okay' one anyway, only to drive back to return it the following day. (Along with an array of other items, that were solely impulse buys and should never have left the store - thank god for refunds) I know that parking in a 30 minutes free parking zone is a risk, but I do it anyway. Only to run back to my car, because every store had a queue, to see the traffic warden scouting the car park waching the clock so they can slap a ticket on your windscreen as soon as your time is up. I think I had seconds to spare. I'm getting good at cutting it fine, if that is of course an admirable trait to have. My gut says no.
I also didn't listen to the little voice who told me to change out of white jeans (which did not belong to me) before I began to serve up a lasagne. I was so preoccupied with the 'perfect' serving, and not splashing myself that I didn't see the crispy cheese stringing along and the dollop of meat sauce land on my foot.
But I felt it.
I have a blister on my foot. It's huge. From a lasagne. I can't even pop it because then I can't wear shoes.And if I can't wear shoes? ...Lets not consider this. Havaiana's would not be appreciated in the office. So I am stuck with an unsightly postule of my foot.
Perhaps next time I might wear steel toe capped boots?
If I suggest it to myself, I probably won't listen.
I think I have what can be called a minor split personality defect, not enough to be deemed dangerous or medically unstable, but enough to cause seemingly insignifcant problems, which snowball into catastrophic proportions.
Not that my burn fits this classification, nor the returning of goods or even the expensive sweeties.
However we could play the game of consequences and my purchasing of expensive sweeties results in my lack of change in the purse, which means that I am unable to pay my parking fee, which means Brian and I would be stuck in the carpark, there would be a parking officer and a clamp involved and because I had already bought a serious amount of ill-fitting clothes, there would be no money to pay for the removal. Therefore he would be towed and taken to a scrap heap. And where would I be?
Still in the carpark. Car- less. With a student overdraft, loan and no money to buy a replacement. And Frank would never see me.
See? So maybe I should start paying attention to that little voice.
It sounds spookily like Mumma Dodd (or Papa Dodd if it involves pennies) and they're always right. Or in the unlikely instance that one of them is wrong, then the other one won't be. And if in the unlikelier event that they're both wrong, then there probably wasn't a right answer anyay.
So now it's time to pay attention to those (sometimes conflicting) opinions, perhaps I'll be more productive because I'll spend less time recitifying the things that could've been done right in the first place.
And so it appears that I have reached a life changing observation...
But an observation is merely bearing witness to something, so it doesn't neceassarily affect how I move forward. Gut, what do you think?
I am almost certain that addressing your internal organs is a secondary sign of insanity.