I’ve been holding out on you guys. You thought I was a professional, thirty-mumble-year-old copyeditor and writer trying to get through her day. In fact, I am ten years old.
I’ve been working on an essay about Scary Things to Talk About since January. It has gone through many iterations, and most days it makes me want to curl up on my bed with the
teddy bear dog.
You know how you’re told to write about the things you’re not supposed to talk about? You know how you’re supposed to write directly about your fears? I’ve nodded along with this advice for years. But it turns out this doesn’t mean I should write about spiders or my fear of heights. It means I have to write about things that scare me for reasons I don’t really understand. I have to figure out why they scare me, and write them down.
Today is the day I’m going to send that essay out into the world. I was looking for work clothes and then turned to DP, and said, “I’m not sure I can figure out what to wear to work AND submit the essay.” DP is a nice enough man that he didn’t call me out on being the fragilest flower in the world.
“I think I’m going to put on my favorite pjs, submit, and then get dressed for work.”
“Mm-hm,” he said.
And sitting here in my favorite star pajamas, I feel ten years old. I’m relying on a modicum of physical comfort to deal with something that is emotionally difficult. And it’s all so fucking petty, but it is my life.
There are days when I understand why toddlers have meltdowns over tiny shifts in their physical lives. I think we all have similar impulses, just a hell of a lot more self-control and experience to put it all in perspective.
C’mon, make me feel better about my current delicate flower status. What stupid childish things do you do?