I have a secret. Do you? Is there anything you hold close that you don’t want prying eyes to see? I do.
I am a teensy bit Type A. That’s not my secret. Most people can tell you that about me. I color code my color coded binders. I have turned down a lovely chair for my classroom because it didn’t fit my color scheme. I once brought my husband to my classroom to get it ready for a guest teacher when I was stricken with the flu. I didn’t send him. I didn’t have him drop things off. I went with, grasping a bucket in my arms. Just a teensy bit Type A. See?
He’ll still weave an awestruck tale of how I sat in a chair with my head down on the table directing him to every file, paper, book, and supply my guest would need for the day. It was as if she was one with the classroom and it was amazing. Is what he says. Or I say that he says.
In reality, he placed his hands on his hips and said, “Well, this explains your car. You use up all the good at school and then there’s nothing left.” Now, I take great offense to that statement. However, I reluctantly admit that this little story has now arrived at my secret. Brian knows my secret. As does anyone that has ever had to wait impatiently outside the passenger door of my 2003 CRV for me to shift the most UN Type A mountains, to make room for their behind.
So I suppose it isn’t as much a secret as I would like it to be.
No matter how type A my life can be, my car somehow manages to escape my wrath. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s my inner rebellious teen fighting to get out. Who knows? In my state of denial, I consider it a piece of abstract expressionism. If you squint and turn your head just so, a little Jackon Pollock comes through. Brian and his bold faced lies tell another tale.
Naturally, I prefer my version. So the next time you find yourself waiting outside my car door, take a little time to appreciate it.