I'm Normal: Cutting Onions Makes Me Cry

I am arched over the cutting board sobbing into the cold counter top, my hair dangling in raw bits of onion, my snot pooling into tonight's dinner.

So why am I crying?

Onions.

Cutting onions makes people cry.

Ok, that's a cop-out. Let's back it up. Don't worry I'll wipe the snot on my lace apron before I begin.

Here's the deal- I've got it all. I got the job, I got the house, I got the man. I have that kind of husband women sketch in the workbook of self-help books.

He's smart.

Not he can hold down a job smart -

he will run a corporation one day smart.

He's caring.

Not he sends me flowers on valentine's day caring -

he takes the time to give my dog filtered water caring.

He's responsible.

Not he pays the mortgage on time responsible -

this man remembers when we need to restructure our 401K and when we're low on toilet paper.

He's handsome.

Not the oh he's cute handsome -

the women, men, babies and animals stare at him on the street kind of handsome.

To disguise his perfect identity, let's call him Mr. Perfect.

So why am I crying?

Let's back it up a little further - pre-Mr. Perfect.

Let's just say confidence has never been my weak spot. I can walk into a room like I own it - I feel smarter than the pretty girls and prettier than the smart girls - which subsequently has left me girlfriend-less. But that's a blog post and a psychological dissection for another day. For now I'm trying to tell you this didn't happen to some waify, self-loathing, victimy kind of chick. So here it goes.

So why am I crying? Oh yeah, onions.

I'm crying because I am unable to cut an onion without overwhelming myself with the thought of, "Is this how Mr. Perfect would slice it?" "Cubed? Pole to Pole? Diced? Chunked? Julienned?" This from the girl that used to go to work like a corporate ninja, come home and prepare a four course meal for her friends wearing an apron and heels.

A glimmer of hope!

I lift my head. Perhaps I could wait until he gets home and seek his advice on this.

More tears.

When did I become incapable of making a decision? When did that voice coil into my brain that prefaces every thought with, "What would Mr. Perfect Do?"

Seriously, I need a WWPD bracelet - except I would have to ask him what color he thinks would work best.

I did everything right.

I caught the man.

Now how do I keep myself?