My name is Crazy Cat Lady and I’m an addict. That’s the first step right, admitting you have a problem? I was the last person I thought this would happen to. I’m opening up so that others don’t feel they are alone…
First, I feel I have to defend myself; I’m an intelligent, articulate woman. I hold myself to high standards and get quite angry by the low brow entertainment offerings that are so prevalent today.
Hell, one of my favourite rants is how “reality news shows” and morning TV are the reason we are becoming so dumb. I’m passionate about education and using my time to achieve worthwhile goals. So I’m deeply ashamed to admit my degrading addiction.
(I also believe that not returning shopping trollies to their bay in the car park is contributing to the breakdown of civilisation, but that’s a rant for another day.)
It started innocently enough; I was tired on a flight back from a client conference and wasn’t paying too much attention to my actions. It was only one, what could it hurt? Right?
Wrong! That one hit was all it took, I was hooked.
I binged all the flight home, I couldn’t get enough. I didn’t want to get off the flight and lose my “connection”. I knew I couldn’t get the product at home; I’d never be able to hide the lost time and money from Crazy Cat Boy.
For the past few years I’ve hidden this dirty secret from the world, indulging while on work trips alone in my hotel room. Making excuses to leave client dinners early or showing up late for pre dinner drinks. Yes, I had sunk that low.
Only recently did I admit my problem to Super Sammie. I expected her to recoil in horror and suggest I seek treatment immediately, but to my dismay she just smiled knowingly and shared her stash with me. It appears that this addiction has almost reached epidemic proportions among seemingly responsible, middle class, white women.
Why admit my addiction now you ask? Well after years of managing to keep a lid on it mostly due to the lack of opportunity to indulge it seems that I’m about to be found out. I’ll shortly be able to feed my shame at home and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist.
So if you don’t hear from me for a while, please stage an intervention, I’ll be in my lounge room wearing PJ’s, an addict’s vacant glassy stare, slack jawed and binge watching Real Housewives….