Curiosity killed the cat, right? Well, impulsivity would've killed my would-be cat if my other half and I fed into our sweet, sweet hubris and adopted a feline. Blame it on the wine-over fog, blame it on being childless in the age-gap of everyone and their mama wanting to know, "So, you guys gonna have kids? Tick tock, tick tock." I know this clock, I've seen this clock, I hear this clock, shut up about the clock. Whatever the case, our minds united like a Vulcan mind-meld and we got the bright idea to adopt a cat. Well, negotiation stage of adopting said cat.
Wouldn't it be nice to have a little buddy in the house, a little pet friend?
Vendetta Logic: Our jobs keep us away from the homestead for large blocks of time during the week and our weekends are spent, mostly, away from home = no dog. Weekend warriors unite! The next best thing is to adopt a cat, right? Clean their litter box, fill their fed bag and away we go, right? No fuss, no muss.
If I was still hovering around the age of 18, here I'd sit with a damn cat -- maybe I'd name it Kitten Mittens or Slayer. I would have split from our home post haste and headed straight to the humane society -- do not pass go, do not collect $200, go directly to animal hell. Then, I'd gotten into that I-have-to-buy-a-cat-right-here-right-now-because-obviously-no-one-else-on-the-planet-let-alone-my-town-sells-cats mode. No wonder at that age I got two pointless tattoos (a constant reminder I'm an idiot) and excess heartache (he didn't call because he needs me to call him 50 times to remind him I exist, right? Right? I don't want him to forget.). Instead, the cat idea was appealing enough for conversation but not enough for action - thank you Baby Jesus.
Look at me Ma, I'm all grown up!
A few days later I looked up some felines online -- like a Match.com for wannabe pet owners. I found some cuties but then suddenly realized ... I don't 100% like cats. My dreadful experiences with cats quickly flashed before my eyes. I sprung into action -- well ...action 21st Century style -- and texted my other half and, lo and behold, he shares the sentiment. It's not that we hate cats, we just don't love them, especially their my-shit-don't-stink attitudes and the weird stretchy/claws factor. Eek. Cats always seem like they are up to no good, prancing and creeping around. Sitting, waiting, lurking, licking.
So, what's the deal pickles? Why did we want a cat? Ding ding ding: This isn't my first time to the rodeo.
After watching a few episodes of "Sons of Anarchy," I was hot for a motorcycle. Red hot. Me want that now! Just think how cool I'd look cruising down the road on one of those loud, rumbling, sex machines! Wearing a leather jacket and studded black boots. Oh yeah, totally awesome! I could take a class, right? Get my license ...
Wrong. I would never ride the thing if I ever got past the class, or to the class for that matter. I've never even ridden on a motorcycle! Bugs in your face, holding on for dear life, balancing ... notsomuch. I'm a wannabe badass leather freaky mama in Banana Republic and wedges.
Sigh.
It's easy for us to form these harebrained schemes of modes to happiness. We moan and complain about this, that and the other and suddenly we find a solution. I need a cat. I need a motorcycle. I need to purchase something, anything, so I ignore figuring out why I want something like this in the first place, why I'm searching for things outside rather than looking inside. Advertisements feed into this human trait.
I keep thinking about those lovely ornamental grasses I want to plant in my front yard next spring and how great they'll look, blah blah blah. Am I thinking about the painting that needs to be done on the inside? No because painting sucks. The decluttering? No because it's overwhelming. It's no fun!
The only reason I thought about a cat is because they're sold with a seal of low-maintenance approval. I'm lazy! I have a blind aquatic frog named Lenny Kravitz for goodness sake. Easy peazy.
Am I taking action in regards to hitting the gym more often to lose those 10 pounds that haunt me day-in-day-out? No. Eating better on the weekends so I don't yo-yo diet? No. Being more productive at work? No. I'm thinking about the motorcycle, the ornamental grasses, the 4-inch wedges I saw in a magazine.
I am not thinking about right here, right now. Not even about tonight or tomorrow. I'm thinking about a magical future, whimsical visions of what I'll do when I have the money, or when spring rolls around ... I'm escaping through my mind to items and ideas I probably won't end up enjoying.
My impulsive nature has gotten better with age but there's always an itch, an itch that, if I scratch, will lead me away from my current to-do list into dreamland. While this itch is appealing, I think it's linked to immaturity, like being impulsive. I don't want to grow up, I want to dream of motorcycles and pets instead of bills, my job, my commute and exercise. Also, it's easy to think quickly and act fast instead of being like Meatloaf (WWMD?) and sleeping on it, giving you my answer in the morning because, in the morning, I'll realize cats suck and motorcycles are scary.
Wah wah wah.
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