Well, it could be because she lives alone and yet is constantly talking. She either has tons of guests who have the exact same tone of voice as herself, or…. she talks to herself. All the time.
I was not aware of how often I talk to myself (to be fair, I talk to the cats too, which is totally not crazy, right? right?) until my co-worker said to me one day, as we were both working late and it was just the two of us: “You’d be talking this much even if I weren’t here, wouldn’t you?” Oh. Dear. God. I am a crazy person who talks to herself constantly. When did this happen? Who knows. I mean, can a crazy person pinpoint their descent into the crazy?
It could also be the fact that a few years ago when her lock broke and locked her out of her apartment after taking the trash out, she spent the next three hours obsessively looking into her own windows.
Why? Because I was convinced that the problem was that someone snuck into my apartment in that three minutes that I took the trash out and locked the door and was currently robbing me. Nevermind that they would have had to lock the door in such a manner so that my key to said lock suddenly didn’t work. And have had a key to get in in the first place, or damn fast lock picking skills. And invisibility or been lurking in the basement just waiting for the opportunity to pick my lock. To be fair, I should add that I had been robbed for the second time in three short years only a month earlier than this broken lock situation, so I think it’s fair to say, I was legitimately paranoid and hating the world. My wonderfully kind upstairs neighbor patiently took my crazy self into his apartment while we called a locksmith who took freaking 3 hours to show up and he listened to my slightly over the border obsessive surety that someone was currently in my apartment, put up with my need to monitor my own windows so I could catch them in action and even offered to break my window and get inside to check! (Awww!) He also finally must have decided I was over the top and strongly recommended a nice shot of whiskey. Which I took him up on.
Good points, all, but the clincher in Rebecca being awarded Crazy Lady title for her building occurred tonight: After entering the building late this evening and stopping at the mailboxes for her mail, she was observed batting at her head with both hands. Yes, you read correctly. Like a crazy person.
Ok, I have a good reason for this one too. But it really doesn’t look good. I’ll give you that. I should first point out that I have an embarrassing aversion to many insects. I can lose it in public– and have– if the wrong kind of bug crosses my path. (MN will testify to the shot glass throwing incident in St. Maarten when I was sure a giant cockroach had entered my shot glass. Dear lord though– don’t EVER find yourself on a wood deck in the tropics at night.) Tonight, the front door of my building was covered in beetles and those bizarre lightning bug types that don’t actually light. It’s the beetles that nudged me over into the land of keeerrrraaaaazy. Beetles have been my nemesis since my swimming days, when I’d be at early swim practice before the guards had cleaned the pool and the lane ropes and edges of the pool were infested with beetles that would cleave to my hair with their horrible cleaving sticky legs. Do you know how hard it is to get beetles out of long hair when they don’t want to come out? So, tonight– I pause before rushing quickly through the horror show summer bug covered door, run inside, stop to get mail, decide to do a beetle head check and deargod-findabeetleinmyhairandholycrapMUSTGETITOUTNOW! MUST GET OUT NOW NOW NOW! Thus the head batting. With both hands. Aaaaaaaannd–enter neighbor into scene, coming downstairs to find lovely (um, obviously!) and apparently mentally fragile nice girl neighbor Rebecca having finally snapped. Sigh, he must have said, “We all knew it was coming.”
p.s. Just so you know, the lovely and patient neighbor who coached me through the lockout theatrics? I baked him a batch of chocolate chip cookies as a massive thank you.