Clean-up on Aisle 10

My favorite superhero is Batman.  Long before Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer or the disaster that was George Clooney (seriously?!?!  They hired the handyman from Facts of Life?), I was captivated by the magic of Adam West.  The TV show that aired well before I was alive kept me rapt many afternoons after 7.5 hours of public education.  He was the pinnacle of suave and dammit, he lassoed villains like nobody's business.  (I think I asked my mother once if cops lassoed criminals in the '60's.  She replied with a brusque "No.")  


Aside from my adoration for Adam, I truly loved the Batcave.  It was a secret hideout in a CAVE for Pete's sake.  It was large enough to hold the Bat-equivalent of the copy machine as other machines with mysterious lights and buttons that did really cool shit.  And it held the Batmobile.  But the best part?  The labels.  Everything was labeled.  It was if some expert from a TLC hoarding midget cake show came in there and Organized-Living'd the place.  The little placards with the cautious writing and the complete lack of clutter...  It was neat.  It was tidy.  It was beautiful.  


And therein lies the problem with reality.  It's messy.  Disorganized.  Sometimes the labels are wrong.  (Who hasn't sugared their coffee with cocaine on a sleepy morning?)  And that's just the STUFF.  


People are even messier.  Emotions and bodily fluids spill out like an overstuffed taco (you knew you were putting too much in there but you bet on hope that it would work anyway.  Now you're eating your finger food with a fork.  Fail.).  


I dislike the mess and the unpredictability.  And before you regale me with flowery quotes from the likes of Eckhart Tolle or Miguel Ruiz,  I KNOW.  The journey is more important than the destination, blah, blah, blah.  Get off my lawn.  


Despite what my husband(s) would tell you, I dislike illogical thinking and behavior.  It feels like when you rub a cat's fur the wrong way.  Nothing is ruined but it's WRONG and youshouldreallyfixitrightfuckingnow.  This occasionally makes me a rigid asshole.  I could apologize for it, but I'm not sorry.  I own it, embrace it, and would ask the groomer to put pink bows on it if I could.  


As one could imagine, this rather strong and stubborn trait of mine often makes me ill-suited for the real world.  I try to assimilate, go along with the flow, and give the appearance of being flexible.  But really, I'm just waiting it out.  There's the tiny hope that eventually you all will see the error of your ways and come to your senses.  And then we will have a big fucking labeling party.  Ambiguity?  Poof.  Disorganization?  Gone.  Clutter?  Eradicated.  It will be beautiful.  Then I will lie contentedly on my chaise lounged labeled neatly "Chaise Lounge" with my book labeled "Book" like a cat purring in the sun.  And if you rub my fur the wrong way, I will cut you.