I’ve been anxious and unproductive lately. I looked up my symptoms — back tension, worry, sleepiness — and apparently I have now overcome my old ailments of codependency, people-pleasing, and OCD to catch something new from that sneezy cashier at the pizza place — Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or as the hipsters call it, GAD. Why pay for a therapist when you can do it all yourself?
I’d like to blame BlogHer for all this tension. Buying a ticket to New York for this year’s conference for women (yeah, I know) has opened a whole box of muscle tension. How long should I go? Do I live in NY or LA? What’s going on with Vartan? What will happen with Sophia when events change?
In order to prevent a total breakdown, I needed to take quick action.
It didn’t matter. I have noticed that when you are doing something pro-active, it takes your mind off of worry. Isn’t that what I learned in that meditation class? I’ve already vastly improved my life by changing my blog template for the first time in five years and creating a new ATM password after using the first name of a schoolmate for decades.
The red shirt.
This is my favorite shirt. I bought it in college. Here I am wearing it on MY HONEYMOON!
The sands of time have not treated this shirt well. The sleeves are ripped and there are stains in the front from the time I spilled a basket of french fries slathered in ketchup on myself in Portland 2006. Oh, and it is missing a button.
Has there ever been a man who has NOT heard a woman say to him, “I am NOT LEAVING the house if you are wearing that shirt. The invitation said the party is FORMAL!”
Action. Enough with the red shirt from college. I’ve moved on!
P.S. — For the sake of authenticity, let me admit that I created that last line — “I’ve moved on!” — for dramatic effect. In reality, after I took the final photo, I removed the shirt from the garbage bin in the kitchen. It seemed a cruel way to treat an old friend, like tossing your recently passed-away cat out of the window while driving on the 405 Freeway.
Aha moment! Why not keep the shirt, and use it to dust the house?
Just like I would do with the dead cat.
P.S.S. — For the sake of authenticity, I would never do that with a dead cat.
P.S.S.S. — Also, for the sake of authenticity, I have no intention of ever dusting with this shirt.