The French idiom one would use while plucking daisy petals and saying dreamily, “He loves me / he loves me not…” can be roughly translated like this: “He loves me / a little / a lot / passionately / foolishly / not at all…” But don’t worry – that’s not really the type of passion I’m thinking about. That little poem, and specifically the French phrase about folly, “a la folie,” jumps to mind all to readily when I realize that my emotional response to something is out of proportion to that something’s actual importance in my life. My mom once looked at me, shook her head, and said, “The problem is that you care so much about every opinion you have…and you have an opinion about EVERYTHING!” I was a teenager at the time. I would like to say that I’ve grown out of that particular description…but…I try not to lie. That’s the overabundance of passion that is currently disquieting me. I got mad about a computer game last night. I managed, quite mature-ly I’m sure, not to have a temper tantrum about it. Two nights before that, I lectured my husband about a topic on which we agree completely…just because he was the only available audience at the time and I had a surfeit of words that needed to be said. He politely reminded me that I needn’t yell at him…. On the one hand, I sort of like being passionate about my beliefs and opinions…and games, and football teams, and tea varieties and…well, you know. But I sometimes wish that I could just let things be. I wish I had that sort of cool that allows life to flow by and not touch me quite so often. It is more comfortable to have fewer things at the top of the priority list. Sometimes I think I have an astonishing ability to multitask my emotional reactions to all those things that have somehow come to be categorized as ” Of Utmost Importance.” Maybe that’s what I should call my heretofore never considered autobiography. My husband has fewer literary pretensions in describing me. He says that for me, everything is a big deal. He laments it, actually…except for when he is, very appropriately, laughing at me. It helps to be laughed at. It reminds me of the whole folly thing. I hate to be foolish. With a white hot passio…oops. Here I go again…. I confess also that I have propagated this particular trait in the next generation. It’s kind of cute…except when it’s a temper tantrum. Those are never cute. Truths to remember….