Sore Spots

We are all familiar with our sore spots (for the most part). We know where they are. We know that when they are touched, we will most likely do something uncontrollable and out of character. They are painful, ugly, and no fun in general. We dread the day when some unsuspecting character rubs that spot the wrong way and unleashes our beasts.
Off the top of my head, some of my personal sore spots include....
My family. Don't mess with them. The quickest way to make me plot your demise is to hurt someone in my family. The second quickest is flirting with my little sister.
Bossing me around. Generally, I'm laid back and open to doing what others prefer. But the moment I feel you are demanding me to do things your way, I instantly resist. I enjoy my independence and freedom. If you want me to do things your way, be very subtle and polite about it or your not going to get very far.
These are the two big ones for me that I've known about for a long time and still struggle with.
Last night, however, I discovered a new one. My cooking. I never knew I could be so sensitive about food, but I can. I love cooking, but I love cooking right. I don't cook every day. The reason for that being that when I cook a meal it is like a five hour ordeal. It is like art work. I love it, but it is very consuming and I just can't possibly do it all the time. Anyhow, so I took the time to prepare this meal for a group of friends. I was so excited about it and it was super fun. But when people arrived I actually felt nervous. "Oh God, what if they don't like what I cooked? What if I didn't cook enough? What if they have an allergic reaction?" So during the meal it was actually impossible for me to relax. My mind is racing. Who looks like they are enjoying it? Is anyone not eating? I made a mental note of every person who complimented the food and who didn't. Wow, I'm psychotic. To make it worse. One of my poor guests made the tragic mistake of adding something to my vegetarian masterpiece. No it wasn't salt and pepper or any seasoning. It was canned meat. He brought canned meat from his house and dumped it all over my art. I thought I would die. All last night, and even still today, I steamed. Part of me is still steaming. It's that spot. That spot that I don't want anyone to mess with.
So I'm trying to keep it in perspective. No doubt, it was rude. But when have I ever cared much about rude. I'm the girl who likes to burp loudly in public places. I know next to nothing about Miss Manners rules of polite behaviour. I don't care about what other people think for the most part, when it comes to silly little society rules. So why am I so pissed at this guy for not following the rules of society? Why do I feel like it would have been better if he had just spit in my face? So he wanted tuna. So what. It's his meal. I made it for my guests to eat and enjoy, not to eat and wish that they had something else instead. It just goes to show my impure motives, my pride, my rough edges that need some sanding. Need sanding or not, I don't think I'll have it in me to cook for my friends for awhile. Sure I want to grow, but I'm not a massochist (is that spelled right?). I don't go looking for people to insult my brother just so it will give me a chance to grow. Sigh. When did I become such a nut case?
Does everybody just get crazier as they get older or is it just me?

A week or two ago Sara and I were talking about our "psychological disorders" and how every woman has them. In fact, if you don't have them, are you really even a woman? We decided that our psychological problems are what give us our feminine charm. So men, enjoy your clarity.