Just Under Four Eyes

If you use Google Translate to get the meaning of "unter vier Augen" in English, it will say it means "in private."  But really, it literally means "under four eyes."  You know, like, just between you and me.  We're just going to say these words under only our four eyes.  I like it.

So, under four eyes, you should know that yesterday I may have had a level-seven emotional meltdown.  Level-sevens are categorized by staring blankly at walls for an hour or two, randomly crying at things like my socks being on the ground instead of on my bed, and a complete inability to do or make or hum or move or jazz-hands toward anything.

I swear.  If you had come into our apartment yesterday and said, "Heidi.  The only thing you have to do right now to be happy is put one arm in the air," I probably would have just sat down on the floor and wailed.  Then I may have rolled around a bit more in my lame emotional hypothetical pukiness and then wailed some more for good measure.

And then, I experienced an Allie Brosh moment of extreme determination stemming from a very significant amount of pure anger.

I said (in my head):  "You namby pamby.  What are you doing?  Are you laying on the couch?  Are you eating a cold bratwurst?  Why have you not mailed your own mother's birthday present yet?   That's the one thing you had to do today."

This just made me sit up and sniffle--making a "wah wah I'm so saaaad" face to no one because I was alone.

Then I said (in my head):  "You're going to get up.  You're going to go to the post office.  You're going to speak REALLY BAD German.  And you're going to be out of the house when Paul gets home because that would be the worst if he saw you like this.  Ugh."

::blink blink sniffle::

Then I said (in my head):  "THEN.  You're going to Buy a Pizza.  And you're going to Buy an electronic copy of 'Groundhogs Day.'  AND YOU'RE GOING TO ENJOY IT!  DO YOU HEAR ME!!!  You're being a wuss.  Get your wussy self out of this room and outside."


And, I got dressed.  (?!)   And I went to the Post Office (?!)  And when I'm at a level-seven, I honestly don't care one lick about the fact that I can't speak German or if I'm saying the wrong things or if people are laughing at me or are annoyed.  I just marched right in there and straight-up made a fool of myself and it was glorious.  And I mailed something.  Internationally (this requires forms!).  By MYSELF.  In a language I started learning three months ago.  It involved using sentences.  This is a big deal.

I went to the library.

I bought a pizza.

And I shopped.  (I hate shopping.  But who cares when you're at level-seven?)  And it felt good.

I was invincible!


So invincible, in fact, that three hours, $40 in make-up (what?  I don't even wear make-up?), an H&M sweater, "I'm sorry for being lame" presents for Paul, and a whole Master's degree homework assignment later, I came home.

And that's my story about how I more-or-less punched a level-seven meltdown in the face.