Although most people take me for a Junior League-er right out of central casting, there is something lurking in my life script that you need to know which debunks any ideas of “image” you may have.

I drool.

Like a faucet.

We all have our crosses to bear.  The stories I could tell about my most embarrassing moments almost all include the drool factor.

When my husband and I were dating, he invited me on our first out of town trip.  I had to sit him down for a pre-emptive confession—because we were about to fly for several hours to our destination.  That’s where it’s the worst.  I cannot stay awake on a plane.

There is something about uncontrolled head bobbing mixed with eyes rolling backward and oozing saliva that can put the big kabosh on the heat of the moment, if you know what I mean.  He thought I was just teasing.

For three hours, anyone walking down the aisle could have performed a tonsilectomy on me. You could have held a very dry plant under the corners of my mouth and it would have been nicely doused, revived to live another day.  It was a very quiet ride to the hotel.

Fast forward to now………

The other day it was snowing and icy in Dallas.  The coldest temps in more than 15 years gridlocked the city.  At least 6 million people got to stay home in their ratty bathrobes, old socks and comfy glasses for an unexpected day off.  I was one of those people, alternating between padding around the house, looking to see if anything new and tempting had magically materialized in the frig since my last door opening and then upon discovery of the same week old pimento cheese —- going back to bed with a pile of magazines and books to catch up on.

Warm and cozy, in my ripped and repeatedly repaired bathrobe, I kept falling asleep—-jolted awake—-dreaming of ice skating. You guessed it, I had just turned over into a cold, congealed pool of drool.  Amazing the way our surroundings become incorporated into our dreams.

Since Dallas would just not warm up, this became a ritual over the next three days.  Bathrobe, mags, books, sleep, drool and icy re-entry into the world within my own bed.  It was heaven.  And it was also disgusting and hilarious in a kind of Animal House revoltingly knee-jerky sort of way. 

That’s the moral to this story.  Being human is just too hideously funny sometimes.  Those of us who border on perfectionism need to be reminded of that.  You cannot go wrong with an involuntary cool pool of drool as a wake-up call on many levels.

I heard a great quote once—-can’t remember who said this—so feel free to quote it as if it were me:

BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO CAN LAUGH AT THEMSELVES…..for THEY SHALL NEVER CEASE TO BE AMUSED.  Amen, sista.