You've Got...one embarrassing vice

Everyone has vices.  Guilty pleasures, skeletons in the closet-a rose called by any other name...you get the picture. I'm not necessarily talking about the stereotypical vices, i.e. smoking, drinking, excessive food intake or other seductive behaviors that have become so common place in our over-indulged society that they no longer fit the true definition of vice, but rather the definition of social-norms instead. ( The actual definition for Vice, for future reference is exactly this: depraved or degrading behavior; a fault, defect or shortcoming; a bad habit.) 

For some it may be the 47th pair of strappy black sandals hidden behind the frozen peas and the 5 gallon container of chicken stock in the extra freezer in the basement that the dear husband doesn't know about.  For others, it could be something much more provocative- such as the entire collection of WHAM! videos neatly tucked away underneath your side of the bed.  Whatever your vice is, I am here to assure you that it cannot, will not, could not possibly be as embarrassing as mine.

That's a bold statement, you say.  Just to clarify- this is not an invitation for vice trump cards. No catharsis necessary as barter to participate in the reading of my ridiculous-though often highly intellectualized, philosophical-rantings.  If you happen to disagree with the above statement, let us now, as friends, agree to disagree without having to trudge through embarrassing admissions that I really would have rather gone to church in my underwear before choosing to be a listening ear to.  That being said, I am most positive you will agree that this terrible, little vice of mine really should never be exposed for fear of ridicule or bullying and just the sort of thing those paparazzi search to dig up the moment after you've gotten famous.  I'm hoping that by this public display of humility when my time for fame rolls around, they will have nothing on me other than the fact that I keep the water running while I brush my teeth.  ( Oh stop it all of you Green Gestapo, you do it too and you know it.)

Deep breath.  Here it is.  I am, by nature, an anxious person.  I grind my teeth.  I get jaw pain from grinding.  I get migraines from jaw pain.  I get panic attacks from the migraines and so the cycle continues until either I or my husband or the both of us put together are so sick of me that we have to sit on separate couches and sulk.  I cannot eat or sleep or read or even cry.  It is at these dark hours that only three things have the power to bring me up and out into the light.  1.  Praying to God 

2. Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Mint Cookie- (Half-Baked is acceptable under duress of emergency)

3. You've Got Mail

(Insert slowly widening eyes as connections are made. Audible laughter is evident.  Alright, that's enough.  Really.  It's not that funny.)

No, I do not still use the archaic AOL.  I am talking about the grilled-cheesy mid 90's movie starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  I know.  I can't believe it either sometimes.

I am unsure of the hold that YGM has over me, but it is certainly stronger than any caffeine addiction.  Perhaps it's Kathleen Kelly's charming profession as a children's bookstore owner that has me entranced.  Maybe it's the way she always wears flowing skirts and matching sweater-sets.  Oh, and how the store is perpetually decorated with twinkle lights.  And how daisies are her favorite flower because they're the friendliest.  And maybe it's how she always skips when she walks and how she buys one solitary apple at the farmer's market and how she re-reads "Pride and Prejudice" over and over because she likes the word"thither".  And maybe it's because of how she and Joe Fox always bicker in the cutest little cafes over Mochaccinos and Herbal Teas. Oh, and how I want to be just like her.  Maybe that's it.  Embarrassing.

As soon as the opening credits roll I can feel the tension in my jaw melt away right into the couch.  By the "bouquet of sharpened pencils" my headache has slightly subsided.  By the "what is it with men and the Godfather?" line my fists have slowly unclenched.  And most certainly by the "no matter how horrible you are there is no reason for me to talk to you like that" line I have completely lost sight of any and all previous pain and anxiety and have broken into a deep, silly grin.  My husband, after three years of observation, is still amazed at the mighty power a poorly made 90s film has over his wife's emotions but I would venture a guess to say that if ever there came a time in which he were to meet Tom Hanks, I think he might cry in his arms and thank the poor gentleman for having a hand in saving our marriage.

So, there it is for all the world to see.  I am not thoroughly unashamed, yet have a curious sense of pride in my vice confession.  I love "You've Got Mail".   I hope this gives courage to the masses.  I know there's at least one of you watching "Hope Floats" at this very moment, Kleenex in hand, rubbing the scuff marks in between the skips in the DVD.  Take heart, sister- or brother, mind you, we don't discriminate here at kindalikeoprah-you are not alone.