I was having a dream that I was getting my hair done at a luxurious salon. The stylist was running their hands through my hair and beginning to braid it.
I woke up, only to the sensation that someone was still braiding my hair and thought maybe my husband was being cute and trying to gently wake my up. I turn around to see my kitten spooning me (yes, he was the big spoon) and eating my hair. He was being surprisingly gentle about it.
I am a cat lady. Even before I had any cats I was a cat lady.
I would like to say that this was something I had to “come to terms with,” or rather I should say that. The term “cat lady” is usually used in a disparaging manner. However, this is a label I have gladly welcomed, invited even.
You see, I recently invited a new cat into my home. My second. And by “invited” I mean I was having an innocent day, walking around with a cousin who was visiting me when I was blindsided by an adoption event. By blindsided, I mean that I actively searched for a very well advertised adoption event which I obviously found using a very basic understanding of Google Maps. And while I initially had no intention of taking a cat home with me…of course I did.
I had only recently discovered the joys of cat-motherhood. My entire life I had dreamed of bringing a little, gangly, pink-nosed kitten home, but was never able to. My dad had severe allergies, so growing up, cat’s were entirely out of the question. I spent my toddler-hood, with an a cat tail strapped to me (a Halloween remnant) and would drag around a stuffed animal that I was sure was my kitten. As in, I birthed it. That molded into a more socially acceptable activity in my teen years: roaming the web for funny cat videos. Throughout college, despite my efforts to sneak one into my dorm, I continued on, sad and 100% cat-less. Even after college, when I thought I would surely assert my independence by adopting, I traveled on, sans cat. It wasn’t until my 3rd year out of college when I decided to make a change. I brought home Olive, a gorgeous little Maine Coon from the country, and I knew I had met my destiny. I was and have always been, a cat lady.
My little darling.
It was not until that moment that I realized “cat lady” was not a circumstance, but a state of mind. Cat lady was the whole embodiment of cat-itude: a perfect mixture of laziness, coziness, and constant hunger. It lends itself to long nights at home with the TV flickering in front of you for hours as you beg your partner to massage you and bring you bon bons. We surround ourselves with cats because they make us feel better about ourselves. They make us feel totally justified in our behavior and that we are not alone.
I still have friends ask me, “don’t you feel tied down? You have to go home to feed them and can’t go away for weekends without getting a cat sitter.” First of all, they’re effing cats. COOL IT. And…you want the truth? This is everything I want out of life. Ok, well, my home life. A purring, cooing little fluff ball I can spoon while watching reality TV. I have found my bliss.
As I brought my new little orange bundle of joy home after that adoption event, I relished in imagining the new level of lounging I would reach. After days of debating, my husband and I christened him Turd Ferguson. We’ve never been happier or lazier.
My little booger face.
I just drank out of a cup of water my cat washed her paws in. I am the Everest of laziness.
I’ve had this bizarre hallucination lately… Maybe it isn’t a hallucination as much as an optical illusion but, it is something I am seeing that is not there (can I get a “BEAUTIFUL MIND” up in here!?).
Either way, I’m seeing cats.
No, I’m not seeing CATS, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, because I would be much more horrified in that case.
I am seeing actual meow meow fluffy kitties.
And it’s not like I just go into my room and there is a cat on my bed, staring me in the face. Nor do I have an imaginary friend cat that I have named Booger Face that follows me everywhere and that I keep in a bassinet.
What I see are cats, or something that appears to be a cat, that is scampering away out of the corner of my eye. So never a full on cat just the thought of “was that a fucking cat?” and never being sure. If I am home alone and particularly paranoid that day I will see something move and will assume it is a cat scurrying away…even if I am in the shower…no place is safe. It also happens a lot when I take a walk at night. If the anonymous creature is not big enough to be a bear (read “Bear Attack!” from Oct. 18 because I don’t know how to link things yet…) I firmly believe it is a cat.
Maybe it is the Cheshire cat and this is Wonderland, phase 1. If I see a rabbit in a suit I’ll be sure to report back. After I cage that shit and sell it to a zoo.
Or maybe it’s Professor McGonagall from Harry Potter. Next time I see a cat I’ll whisper crucio and see what it does. If I find myself in Azkaban I’ll know the truth but, alas, it will be too late…
Now, why I’m hallucinating, or optical illusion-ing, cats I cannot tell you. I love cats!! I would like to clarify, once agian, I am not referring to the musical! So why I constantly think a cat is following me I can’t tell you.
Either way, it is pretty weird and I have deduced that I either have some brain juice leakage in my doohicky (I believe that is the medical term) or I am simply an insanely anxious person who hallucinates cats all the time. Wait. I guess that’s all it is…though I’m not going to discredit the brain leakage hypothesis at this current juncture.
Adventures of TootsieWoo 