May
04

Double-O C.

I think I broke a nerve. Or something. I have suddenly gone from being all lackadaisical about my upcoming trip to…not. And it is no use telling me that Simone will be fine, that I will be fine, that everything, in fact, will be fine—I know these things, but they are useless when it comes to a broken nerve. Those of you with anxiety disorders will understand what I mean. This broken nerviness is not rational, not “about” any specific aspect of my trip, and thus responds to nothing save the usual: strong tranquilizers and gin. I have lost my appetite (me!), and my digestive system is doing something terrible in its lower region. I have a headache, and may also be getting my period, because WHY NOT? Sleep is fragmented and hard to come by, unlike tears, which roil about close to the surface.

Formerly, I didn’t travel. The very idea was enough to make me have a Spell, or in the case of the last time I attempted such a thing, come down with a migraine severe enough to land me in the ER and cancel my trip to Venice. But, as with my anxiety about many things, my travel anxiety disappeared sometime after Simone was born. I suppose it could have been a hormonal reaction, but I believe that it was simply an outgrowth of the hellish experience of my pregnancy and Simone’s NICU stay. Since then, my anxiety is more “charming neurosis” and less “padded cell.” Small things have lost their power to frighten me, and once that happened, one of the first things I wanted to do with my newfound calm was travel.

Thus I expected to handle this trip with aplomb, and had been, really—looking forward to shopping in a different country, adding to my goat collection, taking pictures, and eating Cheeses of the World. But It was pointed out to me on Friday that my list-making with regard to my “vacation” is getting out of hand. (In my defense, I have never before taken a vacation longer than seven days). The lists were beginning to include things unnecessary things, things like suede cleaner for a mostly clean pair of shoes, fine grade sandpaper to fix a necklace, yeast infection medication (just in case!), Jergens slow-tanning lotion, travel dental floss, having my car (which will remain here!) detailed, finishing the current chapter of my manuscript, and buying cozy-yet-unlikely-to-contribute-to-deep-vein-thrombosis Plane Socks, to name just a few of the less-ridiculous items.

So like I said: my nerve is broken. Sprained at least. And this weekend, as I walked through a bookstore trying to calm myself, I came upon a book on a table by an author whose name I recognized, and you know the endorsement/blurb/whatever on the cover? The thing that says:

“A BRILLIANT TOUR DE FORCEY NOVEL! BUY IT!—Famous Author”

That thing? The “Famous Author” was a name I recognized, from college, and so when I went home I Googled her and surprise! She is fancy! And much-lauded! Despite having spent most of her time at Sarah Mawr wearing leg-warmers as sleeves!
{Ed. Note: Ashley, if you are reading, it was Out of Control Girl, aka OOC! She is now a successful writer of real books! Kill me!}
Anyhow, this did not help my mood. It never does, to find yourself eclipsed by a former classmate, though of course I mean eclipsed in the figurative sense. It would be impossible for her to physically eclipse me, because according to her author photos, she’s lovely and thin. HOORAY!

The one pleasant consequence of all that professional jealousy was that it distracted me for a moment from the things I need distracting from: my jittering heart, my gurgling bowels, my endlessly scrolling to-do lists, and, most importantly, the fact that in only a few days, I will be leaving this:
Famille

I must be crazy to leave that, right? My dear family? What about the Swine Flu? What about the fact that my baby already prefers her father and will now surely bond to him even more closely, forgetting about the one who carried her for a substandard but at least SERVICEABLE gestation? (I really need to start driving a wedge between them somehow…) What about everything I still have to do? What about my intestines? What about my parched throat and rolling, spooked-pony eyes?

I would write more, but I have lists to make.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |