I got the Eggcentricity.
‘Should I grab Spaghetti hoops or beans?’
A mundane question, on a mundane Monday, in mundane Morrison’s.
I stand by the shelf, my hand hovering between bog standard beans and Bob the Builder tomato hoops, powerless against my dithering nature.
I am exhausted and because of this, it feels like a much bigger decision than it should be, but when he doesn’t respond I turn to glance at him in a huff.
Just bloody tell me what you want!
‘Whatever you do, do Not Look Down!!!’ my husband bellows out of nowhere like a man possessed.
He shouts it at me with such vehemence and such panicked vigour, his arms outstretched towards me, his face etched with fear, I didn’t feel I really had much of a choice.
I was in shock at the change of pace!
Hoopy’s or beans, hoopy’s or beans, hoopy’s or beans, Jesus H what the holy HELL is below me?!?
It was a reflex action!
What the hell had him behaving like we were in that scene from Cliff-hanger?
A spider that arrived in a box of banana’s from Bermuda?
What the hell was about to jump up and swallow me whole?!
My heart jumped in to my mouth and because of all of those horrific possibilities flashing through my wrung out brain in a nanosecond, and because I am quite literally unable to follow the simplest of instructions I of course looked down, and what I saw made me clean pass out.
If only I had listened.
I hit the faux marble floor like a dumpy sack of potatoes.
As I went down though, in between the black dots and yellow lights floating before me, I am pretty sure I saw the Irish One roll his eyes just as vehemently as he had given me the instructions, moments before.
A lifetime later (seriously, I felt like I had had a solid 8 hours sleep) I opened my eyes feeling rather sick and disoriented (and a teeny bit grateful) to an audience of what appeared to be half of the staff of Morrison’s Eccles gathered around and looking down, all offering me plastic cups of water and for some reason, tissues.
Had I been sick?
Oh my god, had I wet myself?
I looked around in a sloth like manner, for my husband, from beneath very heavy eyelids.
‘I told you not to look down!’ he loomed before me, all beard and moustache. ‘Are you ok? You look green!’
‘Not in the fish tank…’ I muttered, as my stomach rose up to meet my eyeballs and once again the ground swallowed me whole.
‘I am sorry, but my wife has a phobia of eggs, it’s a real thing. It’s called Ovophobia.’ I heard him saying, as I came around for the final time ‘I did tell her not to look down but as you can imagine Easter is a hard time for our family.’
I smiled as I came around again.
It’s funny because it’s true.
12 pairs of eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
‘Is she ok?’
‘Are you ok madam?’
The Irish one pulled me in to a no nonsense standing position and I leant against him gratefully, nodding gently.
‘She is fine. Just insane that’s all. Thanks for your help.’
25 minutes later as I hobbled unsteadily back to the car laden down with Kleenex, desperate for the loo and clinging to a signed copy of an agreement they had made me sign in case I decided to sue, the Irish one released the Kracken.
‘It wasn’t even a real egg!’ he muttered, slamming the car door and heavy handedly slotting his seat belt in to the holster. ‘You can’t seriously be scared of crème eggs now too! This is getting out of hand. It’s so damn embarrassing. It was only a floor sticker!!’
‘A life sized floor sticker of a cracked egg Irish one!’ I fought back ‘I thought I was falling in to an egg vortex! It was horrifying!’
We drove home in silence.
‘There is always something with you.’
I sighed, a little ashamed.
He is right, recently there is.
‘First you lose your bloody wedding rings in the airport and now this!!’
‘OK, once again about the rings…’ I begin defending myself… ‘I didn’t lose my wedding rings at the airport, they were stolen! How was I supposed to know you don’t take rings off when you go through security?’
‘Because it’s obvious!’ he bites back.
‘But I got them back didn’t I?’ I carry on, working damage control as hard as I can ‘so the drama was short lived! I don’t intend for these things to happen! I really am trying to be low maintenance Irish one, I really am, but it just doesn’t come naturally! I am a drama queen, you knew this when you married me! Drama just follows me! I am helpless to it’s pull!’
We unpack the shopping in tense silence.
‘Did you know you can have online counselling now?’ he starts, clearly trying to clear the air.
I pause before unpacking the next bag and wait for the rest of this horrific attempt to be supportive.
‘There is this service online where you can pay some money and a counselor uses a messenger type service to listen and offer support. You wouldn’t even need to pick up the phone. It’s like having an online support tool that gives you hope.’
I pause for a moment.
‘So basically Twitter, but you pay for it, and it is all one sided.’
‘No I mean like; Please help me, today I fainted in Morrison’s on my BAE because of a huge sticker of a broken crème egg!! I need help yo. No LOL’s #eggymess.’
He smiles as he says it and I am relieved to find once again, I am forgiven.
‘I’ll be less high maintenance from now on’ I respond, hugging him. ‘I promise. I will try really hard. I won’t fall, lose anything, or be at all dramatic, I will be totally normal and ‘with it.’.’
He kisses me on the head lightly ‘Ok.’
But I can tell he is dubious.
I am determined to prove it to him though.
Determined to prove I am capable of living without drama.
40 seconds later I manage to smash a full jar of pickled onions all over the kitchen floor, nearly blinding the dog and slicing my foot to buggery.