Always on the Verge of Impulsive Behavior

Have you ever stood at the edge of a ravine and had the disturbing thought, "What if I jumped?" Or been sitting in a quiet theater and right as the lights are dimming dawdled with the wicked urge to shout, "Fire!"?

Occasionally, I feel the impulse to slowly slide down my stairs, pressing my body to the cold plaster wall, like the next hapless lamb in a black and white horror film. Fingers scrambling to grip the smooth surface, knuckles white from the effort, eyes wide and wildly watchful, I - the heroine - creep closer and closer to a dark destiny at the foot of the stairs.

The audience yells, "Noooooo! Stop! Don't go! Turn around! Ruuuuuunnnnnnnn!" But the screen writer of this, my B-movie plot, dictates in the stage directions that I must place the knuckles of my right hand between my teeth and proceed, shakily. My white gown billows in a mysterious indoor wind sweeping across the steps.

Of course, just as I seriously consider indulging in this ridiculousness, a voice calls up from below, "Mama, what are you doing? I can't find my other pink Espadrille. Can you look in my closet and bring it down?" Immediately, my gown ceases to billow and I straighten up and go look for the shoe.

I tell myself that other people experience these moments of odd disconnect, in which reason wrestles with recklessness. But I'm not sure. The ones who would admit to it have probably all jumped, which leaves me standing on the cliff alone.

Don't worry, though. I'm not taking the leap. I'm a victim of an overactive imagination, not insanity.