Paging Dr. Freud

I am a world-class overreactor. I accepted this long ago but it comes as something new to certain people in my life. If any of you have met my grandmother or even my father for that matter, you're saying to yourself, "You come by it honestly!" or even "How'd you get so close to normal?" Yesterday I bemoaned the fact that the NB was not speaking to me due to my propensity for overreaction and my instantaneous need to dial in the face of some new crisis. It ended up being a case in point.

All day I fretted about my peccadillo. I courted the NB via email with news items, Onion articles and self-deprecating humor all to no avail. At 4pm with an empty in-box I shut down the computer and flopped on the couch resigned to the fact that I would be residing in the dog house for some time.

At 5pm I decided to take it to The Darkside. I was sitting on the back stoop with Wilfredo telling him that the NB was, in fact, furious with me and I was in deep shit when - LO! - I saw him in the distance walking toward the very spot where I sat pathetically slumped smoking a ciggie. His first act? To kiss me and say, "Did you get my email? I was in Pennsylvania all day - just got back. I can't believe you thought I was punishing you!"

Yes, I overreacted to the imagined reaction to my overreaction. I need therapy.