Being locked down during this corona virus is making me do crazy things. Psycho things that no rational person would ever do. The other night was bad, though. I woke my husband up to tell him I was mad at Jane Fonda.
I said, “I’m not mad about the usual stuff like Viet Nam. I’m not mad about her protests. I’m mad because I’m doing her workout and she’s got me convinced I need to wear a dance belt.”
My husband snored and rolled over. I poked him but when he didn’t respond I quietly slid back to my side of the bed and realized: I’m really losing it.
It seems like there’s no end to the meltdowns. I got into a fight with the Relationship Manager from the bank. I finally said to her, “You’re not helping me! All these billionaires are getting loans and you’re telling me I’m not eligible for few thousand dollars???”
She said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you like a free pen?”
I’m trying to hold in the anger but my words just seem to slip out like a loose diaphragm. When the rep from my retirement system told me I couldn’t access extra funds, I told her she was wrong. Then I screamed at her. “Are you even working? You sound like you’re sitting in your den watching Ellen.”
I was shocked when she fought back! No thought about, “The customer is always right.” She goes, “If I were you, I’d check the rule book, sister. And then she hung up!”
When I started to rage dial her back, my husband gently took the phone away. “Listen, I know this is hard being so cooped up. I can’t whisk you off on vacation, but how about a massage? Or maybe a Xanax?”
I’ve been a little calmer the last few days. I did finally get the loan. I called the Relationship Manager to apologize. Not the sister from retirement, though. I put a call into her boss.
And Jane Fonda and I are friends again. I ordered some new workout clothes, minus the belt. I discovered it’s not called a “dance belt,” though. That’s the thing male dancers wear to keep the package from actually dancing. Who knew?