Can Writing Cure a Neurotic?

When did I become so neurotic? And is there a cure? And even if there were, would I want to take it? Today was a little rough. One of my goals for this blog is to reach out of the living room and into my world more. I have to admit I'm a sucker for local community events, and I was excited to receive a recent invitation from our neighborhood association to a session on energy efficiency. I happily put it on the calendar several weeks ago, ready to meet new people, improve our home, shake up my routine a bit, and become a better citizen, keeping overblown expectations entirely in check, of course.

So who would like to venture a guess as to whether or not I actually attended? As it happens I became so consumed with a problem I've been trying to solve since yesterday--something I was utterly convinced would take an easy two hours tops--that I missed the event. Now, after 3 hours each last night and tonight, sandwiched around an hour and half this morning, the immediate problem is solved. I want to be happy about this, and I kind of am, but it came at a price. All day I moped around about it, then I instantly launched into solution mode the minute I came home, plowing past everything in my way, including my sweet husband, who knew I was out of sorts today and tried to help me talk. "Look, I can't think about anything else till this is done," I harumphed, and in the end I proved true to my (inappropriately ill-timed) word.

What I want to know is this: When did being a problem-solver turn into such a distorted, demanding little monkey, with cymbals clashing and crazy eyes? (A song about a cymbal-smashing monkey came on The Current on the way home, and I realized that's exactly how I felt.) Clearly, my quest for the elusive 4 percent--the intentional choice to focus on the good stuff of life--continues. . .