Why in the world is that a reaction to stress?
"Ah man I'm stressin' out!"
So your body is like,
"Hey man I gotchu! Here's a debilitatingly annoying muscle spasm that will haunt you for days, weeks, maybe a month or two if I did it right! You'll constantly want to pull your hair out and probably end up so aggravated that you actually punch yourself in the affected area just to see if it stops the twitching. It'll keep you up at night, make you nauseous every time you try to eat, and generally make relaxing a complete nightmare.
Oh! And don't worry, I've yoga-proofed it so even if you find your 'zen' it won't go away. No worries, dude."
Being stressed out and having a twitch is like being allergic to cats and the minute you have a reaction you volunteer to sweep up all the cat hairs at your local animal shelter (and later knit them into a shemagh).
It's like burning July in Phoenix and instead of jumping in a pool to cool off, you wrap yourself up in tin foil and lay on the pavement.
It's like being afraid of heights and purchasing the top floor of the Empire State Building for the purpose of being your permanent home except there's not even the added benefit of "facing your fears" and overcoming it, it's just WORSE. So much worse.
And all of these aren't even good metaphors because they hinge on 'you' acting on something. I didn't choose to get a twitch like I would choose to wrap myself in foil, or sweep cat hair, or knit, or buy an entire floor of a historic building.
So woot being powerless?
D'you watch Grey's Anatomy? Remember when Callie Torres had chicken pox and she went legit cuckoo for a bit there?
I'm basically at that point.
Which is why I'm here, complaining about it. Because everybody loves a whiner. Isn't that how that one song goes? The broadway one...oh. No, it's "winner".
My life is a lie.
Not a Grey's fan?
How about Ghost? When Sam keeps Whoopi up all night singing that Henry the VIII song?
So I'm just losing my marbles to a "spastic colon" as the internet puts it (or a giant parasitic worm, as my husband puts it) and tomorrow I'm drowning my face in cheesecake. Because we've had four slices in the fridge since Sunday and I've been good, haven't touched 'em all week, and stuck to our rigid diet even though my uterus is begging for chocolate and throwing a mighty tantrum in the meantime.
Anybody wanna just stab me with a fork? Percussive maintenance, right?