One of those twerpy kids was always hanging around the playground when I was little. He would hop on the merry-go-round and gleefully demand to be spun. He'd be obliged, of course (the following spectacle was great fun to witness), and without fail he'd start screaming like a cat caught in a washing machine before being flung off in a heap, where he'd promptly lose his lunch and start crying about how "everyone pushed too fast." Then the next day he'd be back again, wanting to jump back on. The goofy little nerd refused to face the fact that he didn't spin well; he was always determined to have another go at it. It was almost admirable seeing him pitched off day after day, but after a while it got nauseating to watch what a twittering loaf he was. Me, on the other hand, I was unflappable and could spin with the best of them. I loved the merry-go-round. Loved (past tense). It's funny how things change when you get older. I no longer spin well. I think I'd die if I had to endure a ride on a merry-go-round. Besides, I have other sorts of merry-go-rounds that keep me plenty busy spinning in circles.

I once heard someone say that the definition of insanity is "a person doing the same thing over and over yet expecting a different outcome." It's like the twerpy spinner kid. He knew he was going to puke, we knew he was going to puke, but he hopped back on every day just the same. It's a dreadful realization that my life reflects the same track of lunacy as that weird kid.

With some things I just refuse to face the facts. Fact: when I eat three plates of chicken curry at one sitting, I always feel unbearably ill. Do you think that stops me? Heavens no. I'd eat three plates of curry right this minute if they were in arm's reach. Fact: when I cross over the yellow line when I'm driving, other cars almost hit me. Think I drive any better? Nope. I know the facts, but I don't seem to learn. When I wear my husband's socks outside they always get really dirty; this causes him to get rather unhappy. You'd think I'd just stop wearing his socks, right? Sometimes I stop. And it always happens that when I don't clean the tub, a slimy yellowish-orange coat appears all over it. I'll wait weeks for it to go away. You'd think I'd get a clue, but I'm always shocked that it only gets thicker and orangy-er. When I snap at my kids in anger, they get gloomy. I know this, yet I still snap. When I'm too busy with "life" to play with them, they grow resentful and withdrawn. I know the outcome, yet I still let it happen. I'll write whole articles about the great things that happen when I'm sweet to my husband; I know all about cause and effect, and occasionally I'll actually do what's right and experience a great outcome. And when that happens I become more secure in knowing my philosophies are right. "Yep, this philosophy is good. This is my philosophy. I believe in such 'n such philosophy." ... But simply knowing something is completely worthless without the will or faith to live it consistently. It surprises me that I so quickly jump back on that merry-go-round and spin in circles with disastrous success.