I’m leaving soon for Paris. Or London.
Or maybe Fiji.
I’m going to bake a new recipe for a cake from scratch. Besides the one I made this morning.
I’m going to start that book about Nazi Germany, even though I haven’t finished the book I’m currently reading yet.
I’m going to buy a house.
I’m getting a dog. A black lab or a chocolate lab. Or maybe a Rhodesian Ridgeback. I’m naming it Seamus, or Simon, or Cyrus, or Guinness, or Huck. Or Finn.
I’m going to see if a project I’ve been working on can launch me into a new career.
I’m totally going hiking.
I should figure out what kind of car I want next. Just in case this one conks out. It’s doing fine, no problems, but it’s got a lot of miles and I drive a lot, so I should have something in mind.
I’m going to drive to Jack’s house, show up unannounced and just spend relaxing time with him so he can make all the stuff in my head go away.
This is not a bucket list, or even a list of goals. This is a list of impulsive things I’ve wanted to do that I apparently think will take me out of my current mindframe and put me in some sort of delightful alternative universe.
This is what happens when I get stressed out and don’t realize it.
It seems weird, doesn’t it? That you can be stressed out and not even know it? But I’m pretty sure that’s what’s been happening, because otherwise I don’t generally have quite this many fantasies about how to completely upend my (perfectly fine) life.
There’s been a lot going on, sure, but nothing that’s really a pressure-cooker situation. Mostly slow burns. My grandfather died and my aunt is almost definitely going to get crazier now. I’ve had some minor health concerns: my back, and some sort of GI issue that could be reflux, gallbladder, cancer of pick-a-thing, or a small man messing with my internal organs (though I would have thought he’d show up in the ultrasound the other day… maybe he was hiding behind my pancreas). I’ve lost probably too much weight too fast because of it. There’s also this Something’s Stuck In My Throat feeling, which almost always points to reflux but apparently might not this time, and it has me sort of obsessing over my singing voice. I’m working on a project that will require me to talk to a group of politicians next week, so I’m crafting a speech that’s supposed to be three minutes and right now it’s three minutes and fifteen seconds and I’m sort of stuck for how to shorten it. And lately I’ve felt like Jack and I are kind of far away from each other and like he doesn’t seem bothered by it, and I’ve really missed him and want to spend some serious time with him, which we haven’t done since the beginning of January. And he’s about to run another marathon, with a woman I used to work with and he still does, and she looks like Gwyneth Paltrow and I therefore hate her.
I guess that’s a lot, but really, my grandfather’s death seemed like a relief, and I’m seeing doctors about my back and my gut and throat. The back is getting better. The stomach, as of this writing, is completely on fire, which is super-odd since I haven’t had actual heartburn at all except the one weird attack that started this whole thing two months ago, and I’m now on prescription antacids rather than OTC stuff. But I’m two tests into a three-test week and can’t wait to have a tube stuck down my throat while I’m sedated on Monday, so we can see what’s going on. Plus it’s kind of nice to be a weight I haven’t been since approximately seventh grade.
The speech is on a topic that tends to make me anxious, but it’s pretty good, so either it’s just going to be three minutes and fifteen seconds, or Jack is going to come through with some brilliant and workable edits that will help me out. It’s down from five minutes, so I’m claiming victory regardless. And Jack has made a point of both inviting me to come to the marathon and mentioning that he and Gwyneth will need separate rooms. And I’m stupid because hi, he’s not actually my boyfriend. He’s more like my Person. Plus he’s the one who gets to take me for the endoscopy on Monday, and that will be some quality bonding since I’ll be doped up and very possibly belching a lot afterward.
So I don’t really think I’m stressed.
Oh, and also, I’m completely full of crap.
I mean, look. I could be a mother who is constantly worrying about her kids or whether she’s a good enough mom, or I could be losing my job like a bunch of my co-workers, or I could have been out of a job for a year already with no prospects, or I could have to take public transportation to work every day and sit next to a fat guy who breathes heavily and hasn’t showered in a week who finds me no matter how much I try to escape him. Or I could have cancer.
Wait, I could actually (but probably not very likely) have cancer. Hell, everybody could have cancer. Sometimes you don’t feel it.
What I’m saying is that these are really not major things to stress about, and therefore, I do not feel stressed about them. Except that I keep coming up with things to add to my list of Escapist Approaches (oxymoron?), and that makes me think that maaaybe my psyche is a liiiiitttle bit tired.
Ice cream. That’s what I need. Ice cream.