Today. I Tried. To Slow....My Life Down

Well, they're definitely not in  a hurry...

Last year, I wrote about my internal clock and how it is set to maximum speed.  It is still a problem, and until I can tackle it effectively, I will still face the same problems, no matter how well I think I’m doing with my life, career, relationships, health and a dozen other things.  My instinct is to rush through everything, savoring nothing, and the result is, well, a friggin’ mess.

So I’m trying to slow my life down.  I learned an excellent maxim about work: Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.  The more you take your time and complete the task carefully and deliberately, the less actual time it will take in the long run.  Fewer mistakes, less frustration.  Less hair loss.

I’ve been working on weight loss for a few months.  My medications, unfortunately prevent any quick outcome.  I will have to do this the old fashioned way.  More exercise, eating less and patience. And even that will not guarantee rewards.  I’ve accepted that. But, I have to actually eat slower, too, and that is proving to be quite the bitch.

We bought a new couch recently so it’s another good excuse to not wolf down anything in front of a TV.  We have a table with chairs, and that’s what it is there for.  So now, my distractions are gone.  My task now is to physically chew and swallow slower.  Holy crap.  Eating food, even good stuff you are happy to eat, is pretty boring when you chew it like a cow chews cud. Dinner is now an insurance seminar or an HR meeting.  When you have others around, at least some conversation can get you through it, but when you have to eat alone…it’s all you can do to not fall asleep in your salad greens.  Longer eating time equals feeling more full, so slower is better. But what a snooze.

Time perception itself is also a problem.  I have a job where I need to occasionally make appointments that require me to anticipate traffic and travel times.  From the outside , not a major issue.  But a life of anxiety and people-pleasing has made it a mortal sin to be late to anything.  It is the height of inconsideration.  In the real world, shit happens and people are late from time to time.  I was insistent when I started making these appointments that I would give them a specific time; a specific minute, when I would be there.  Later I learned is acceptable to give a window of three hours when you set the appointment! Three hours!  That’s a Lord of the Rings movie!  I certainly can slow my life down and cool my anxiety by giving a very fair and reasonable half-hour window.  Less stress, less hurrying.

I also have to think slower.  That is probably not the best way to describe it.  I have to organize my thoughts and be perfectly content with setting one string of thoughts down in favor for another.  I can simply say: No.  There are so many thoughts in our heads and we get overwhelmed.  You have to remember that these are just thoughts that take up no actual real estate.  They can only reside in the space we give them.  I have creative thoughts and I’m working, so I have to concentrate on work stuff now.  I’ll jot some notes down in a notebook and move on.  The same goes for the reverse.  I’m writing this junk, and I have work thoughts.  They’re not going anywhere. Make a note, and get back to the fun stuff.  You’d be amazed what you can control with the parade of invasive thoughts that march through your brain right before you fall asleep.  Jesus, why am I thinking of a game of Risk I played in 1987?  How did that get in there?  And why am I now breaking down my favorite songs in the REM catalogue?  If you need to sleep, practice saying No.  It’s not always effective, but it’s worth trying to extend that sense of slowing things down to bedtime.

The true reason I am looking at this now is that I want to try novel writing again.  I’ve been sitting on an idea and a handful of notes and unfinished chapters for a while, and I’ve just read a novel that got me excited about the long, arduous, painful, thankless, and mostly lonely art of writing long form.  To write a novel is so different from anything else.  It’s like working out.  You have to a little bit each day for a very long time and eventually you will have results.  It can’t be rushed or the process will suffer.  Everything must be slowed down.  The thinking, the planning, the organization.  But, again, why am I in a hurry in the first place?

This is a lifestyle change.  (You know, the hardest changes to make…) I talk fast, type fast, handwrite fast.  I wash the dishes fast and vacuum fast.  All of those things I usually perform at a piss-poor level.  I am so accustomed to rushing that doing the job well is just foreign.  Everything in life was just something to get through and endure.  It’s not Zen.  I’m not present for anything, whether the events are memorable or mundane.  It’s all a blur.

All I can control is what happens today.  Like writing this essay.  I did my best to take my time and the next one I will do a little better. 

Now I have to go sip my decaf like the Crawley’s sip afternoon tea.

Are You a Serious Person?

            This one came to me from an unexpected source, the so-so CBS drama Madam Secretary.  (We’re parents in our forties and it’s on, ok?)  A discussion between the titular character and one of her aides resulted in the question: “Are you a serious person? Because I only want to work with serious people” Or, something close to that.  The aide responded that he was indeed a serous person and up to the job she had given him.  That minor subplot aside, that question stuck with me.  Are you a serious person?  I feel that I should say yes; that it implies maturation, professionalism, and a level of respect.  But, if I’m honest, there is no way in God’s green earth that I am a serious person.

            I should set some parameters here.  This has nothing to do with ability; it is what you value.  A serious person could very well handle the challenges of the upper echelons of government, business, academia, scientific research, professional bowling…  But, what it takes to get to the top is strict adherence to your priorities.  Sacrifice.  We all sacrifice something.  How much are you willing to sacrifice to get that thing you want?  Serious people know how to sacrifice. A lot.

            I often wondered if I was a lazy lump of crap.  Mental illness aside, I just never felt the motivation to strive to reach the top of anything.  If you take judgment out of it, you realize most people in human history don’t reach the top.  Only the few serious (and many times lucky) people make it and sustain that type of life guidance counselors told you about. 

            There is the thought about values. This notion of reaching the top or being a serious person is not necessarily a worldwide belief.  Some of its western thought, some of its just American.  Do French or Japanese people think this way? How about Ghana or Argentina or Canada?  Americans come from somewhere else, and there always seems to be a mixed bag or DNA and traditions that float around in our heads from the old country.  I am not a Protestant.  I have no lineage to pilgrims or eighteenth-century landowners.  ‘Work, work, work or you won’t get into heaven’ was never part of my bag, baby.  If anything, I probably have more in common with my French and Italian roots.  Europeans, physically toiling outside in the sunshine, sipping wine and eating insanely good food four times a day.  They value living and having relationships with what they work with all day.  Work to live, instead of live to work, and all that.

            If you break it down, I value two things above all else in my life.  Relationships and creative thought.  I love my family and friends, and I love chatting, reading and writing about interesting things.  Those values do not support a serious person.  I did not mention hard work, frugality, business sense, logic, competitiveness, duty, or a sense of purpose.  Those are the values of a serious person.  Or at least, they are on their list somewhere. 

            I am a dad and a husband.  I am a guy who has had a bunch of jobs, and will probably have a few more.  I don’t care about putting my stamp on anything.  My deepest regret is that I have not learned how to socialize effectively and am missing out on chatting and spending time with other people.  And, I wish I was better at guitar. It’s probably for the best that I’m not serious. There has to be some of us that aren’t, right? A world full of serious, responsible people?  How boring would that be?

I Do Not Know What To Say To You

Christmas tree farm, Amity, OR

When I’m in the mood to write blog stuff, I think of one of two questions: What do I love? and What brings me pain? (Almost no one reads the love ones.) I thumb through the file cabinets in my brain to see what I’m been chewing on, and eventually I’ll come up with something.

I think it’s important to write about this particular subject because I am still in the middle of it.  I am still in the suffering stage and there is no bright light on the horizon.  Most of the time, these little personal essays are mini-survival stories or thoughts on fiction and football and nerd stuff. This time, I am currently mired in the muck.  Whenever I talk to a therapist again, this will be at the top of my list.  Just as it was five years ago when I started taking care of myself. Haven’t been able to do jack about it.

I want to meet people.  I want to socialize.  I want a new friend before I die.

Kurt Vonnegut explained why there were so many divorces in the last half of the last century. Americans are in a process of isolating themselves. Simply put, each person in a marriage is just one person.  We are wired to be in a community.  One that starts with our partners, family, and kids and then extends to others.  I can be very happy with my wife and my marriage and my children, as well as the small group of friends I’ve kept in touch with for 20 years or so, but my problem exists outside of that.

They used to call people like me shy.  I get it. It’s easy to pin down. The obvious answer is I don’t know the right thing to say or I don’t have a lot of experience being social.  Make sense.  I just don’t think that’s my problem.  The truth is, I don’t have the experience and I don’t know what to say, but there is a lot of crap other than simple social maneuvering and chatting techniques.

Now, I’ve met people through many workplace scenarios. I have had conversations and workplace camaraderie to be sure.  I think I fair rather well.  It’s that next level that I’ve never reached. It’s the doing things after work hours or on the weekends type of stuff I’ve never done.  I don’t know who I am out there.  On the job, I’m valued as someone who helps you get through a shit day.  Out there, where all those rules don’t apply, I don’t know who I am or what I would say. 

It’s not just work.  I have lived in this house for nearly eight years and I don’t know any of my neighbors.  Not even their names.  My last house I lived in for nine years and I knew only first names of two neighbors, and they initiated it.  I don’t know how to talk to grocery clerks.  Waitresses.  Assholes at the music store.  Even if I am feeling extroverted and wacky and I manage to talk back to someone who is being friendly, my mind analyzes if this person is a potential friend or not.  I feel myself getting emotional; then eventually bummed out that it’s just a random exchange and not the beginning of buds for life.

I think I speak softly, too. When some guy at the store says: “Go Hawks!” when he sees my Seahawks t-shirt, I reply “That’s right!”  But I think I say it in such a whispered tone that the guy thinks I’ve ignored him.  People seem to not see me a lot.  I get bumped into. 

My therapist though it was weird that I could do open mics but I didn’t know what to say to one person.  People are terrified of going on stage for any reason, but that’s nothing.  Face to face with a stranger, having a conversation, where you can read their emotions and body language, and they’re reading yours and having the same thoughts in their heads? Give me stand-up anytime. 

If I were more spiritual, I would say that I am blessed.  I have love in my life; I am embracing my health and my health problems.  I am fine with being 42.  But this complete void in my life, the excitement of new people and conversations and experiences, is unavoidable.  My wife has the same void, but she does not feel it like I do.  It doesn’t bother her.  I am the one who has to extend his hand and make this happen.  I am the one who has to hide his obvious desperation to make friends.

Pure incompetence would be preferable to being dumbfounded.  I’d rather be a boorish douche or a chatty hipster than just an empty suit that doesn’t say anything.  At least I’d have something to work with.  Shit man, I know I’m funny.  I’m smart enough to understand an intellectual discussion and nerdy enough to get quirky references.  I’m opinionated.  I have a lot of things to say.  All that simply rattling around in my brain is meaningless.   Without the proper entrance into someone else’s personal space, I’m like a street preacher or creepy old man.

I usually like to have a few sentences to wrap things up at the end.  Without them, these essays feel unfinished.  But, I truly have nothing to tie this together.  I do not know how to tackle this problem and I have no potential strategies.  It is a huge issue with tiny little everyday solutions.  I guess it is truthful to say that I am hopeful and that I am sure there is a way out of this for me.  I just have to walk through the right door.

Why We Can’t Give Up Star Wars

Thirty-eight years ago, in a screen grab far, far away...

Episode VII is months away, and although interest have been piqued and most of the people who have sworn off the Star Wars universe will break down and see, it there will still be whiners.  Not the nerdy whiners that insist that their SW memories of the ‘70’s and 80’s be eternally frozen in carbonite, and any additions to the original trilogy are heresy and downright dumb.  No, I meant the outsiders.  Doesn’t Hollywood have any new ideas?  What can’t we come up with new shit instead of going to the same well over and over? (The short answer for them is: Money, stupid.)

However, the Star Wars universe of films, TV shows, and kids’ stuff is a little different.  I have to travel back in time for a minute to explain.  Try not to fall asleep.

Back in 1977 when the first one arrived in theaters, we all know by now that it was with perfect cultural timing.  Movies were gritty and realistic and Star Wars came along with aliens and robots and a laser swords. It was fantasy and escapism and so different that it caught on instantly across the world.  But what isn’t often discussed, at least in the U.S, is that 1977 was also not yet the kid-friendly era we live in today. Barely anything existed for children’s entertainment after the age of 6.  Once you were done with Sesame Street, you could watch a bunch of old cartoons that came out when your parents were kids, or old movie reruns with Don Knotts and Tim Conway.  No Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network or MTV, YouTube, Kids’ Choice Awards, Disney Channel, and certainly no sitcoms or nighttime TV for kids.  It was the Muppet Show on Sundays and then you went to bed.

Star Wars was for us.  The whole cultural and cinematic shift that Star Wars brought, for better or worse, had a bunch of little Gen X-ers in Underoos riding its wave.  To say it was just a movie, or even a series of movies it’s not giving it its due.  It was as big as punk or rap on the scene.  It spawned a decade of copycats and a new era of imaginative fiction.  It breathed life into comics and storytelling and toys and brought nerds and non-nerds together for maybe the first time. 

Generations need these delineations.  It is lodged deep in our DNA strands to search for the things that separate you from your parents.  Han Solo had nothing to do with hippies or peace and whatever the hell was going on in the 70’s. 

You have to remember, there was nothing else like Star Wars at the time.  Not just stylistically, but there were no other films or stories at the time that could rival its popularity.  Anytime in the next two or three years, we could have  Marvel, DC, Star Wars, Mad Max, Terminator, Hunger Games, and I think there are movies coming down the pike from the Avatar and Harry Potter universes. Back then, movies could stay in the theaters for a couple years.  It was everywhere for a long time and we had longer attention spans. Star Wars was like the Beatles.

These movies were an element of my playtime as a child. That type of imprint lasts forever.  It’s like hearing an old song or a small memory.  A little piece of it will always be a part of you.  Hear that, Potter fans?

When the prequels arrived in 1999, I was psyched like all the other kids of the 70’s and 80’s.  I had little boys who could jump right in with new characters and spaceships and Legos and playtime.  It was awesome. But we know what happened.  The movies were duds. They could never have the longevity of the original trilogy anyway, because it was a different time.  The movies being the stinkers they were didn’t help.  My kids liked them anyway, and they had the lightsabers to prove it.  I have the DVD’s on a shelf.  They gather dust as I write this.

I remember when Iron Man came out.  It had been a couple years of just terrible or boring super hero films and I thought that they were just digging a little too deep in the catalogue to make a good popcorn movie.  It succeeded anyway.  It was well done and fun to watch and is still one of my favorite hero movies ever.  Anything can succeed, even if it’s well-trodden ground, if the right people are involved.  Episode VII is helmed by people my age, who understood what made the original characters work and what made the stories fun.  Maybe they are the right people this time.

So…Christmastime…

There is absolutely nothing not 1970's about this photo.

            I guess I do judge people on how they celebrate Christmas.  It is kinda stupid, and I make exceptions for obvious religious purposes, but I find that your attitude toward the holiday tells me a little about who you are the rest of the year.  There are the frazzled, the complainers, the overzealous, the perfectionists, the guilt machines and the rest of us, who fall somewhere in the middle.

            I can’t deal with psychos who overplan, but I really don’t get along with Grinches who are cheap and don’t possess a giving bone in their body.  I also don’t need to hear another syllable about the origins of the secular celebration of Christmas, commercialism and the nonexistent war on Christmas.  I am the most irked by the complainers. Shopping for gifts and making a few dinners isn’t like facing down ISIS in Iraq.  It’s just some comfy socks and assorted nogs.  Calm the hell down.

            Christmas was a time when my parents got their shit together.  Until I was around 11 or so, that time of year was as cool as it could get for my brother and me.  We had a few big surprises, my mom baked, we got into the Johnny Mathis on vinyl records, and we trimmed the tree within an inch of its life.  Best surprise gift?  Atari 2600 console.  Yes, I’m that old.  Matt and I lost our shit. 

            But it was the time of year that I loved.  It was at least a little cooler in Florida, which always made me feel better.  Neighbors put up lights and decorations.  There were parties and treats and days off and more time with friends and Frosty on TV and old movies and it was all…different.  I think that’s what has stuck with me.  This is just a different time of year.  Whether you celebrate the holiday in a religious or secular fashion, or an American combo of the two, the scenery changes.  Schedules change. The daily routine is altered to accommodate frivolous stuff like mistletoe and ugly sweaters and shopping and goofing off.

            I’ve always been the Christmas guy around here. My wife is no Scrooge; she was just born without a “making a fuss about things” strand of DNA.  I decorate inside and out.  I go find a tree, put it up, and decorate it.  I make plans for all the gifts, buy the gifts, and wrap, tag, and hide the gifts.  I adhere to the traditions and look to make new ones.  All me. My wife cooks the Christmas dinner.  (Standing rib roast.  Quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.)

            When my kids were tiny, this was an absolute pleasure.  You can feel a kid’s anxiety as the 25^th approaches. The 24^this a nightmare to them.  They watch the clock and do anything to make the day somehow go faster. Christmas morning was the absolute best thing about being a parent. I remember a million smiles and silliness and I’m proud that I was there for all of it.  But, now they aren’t little turds anymore.  They are big and old, and the boys are young men with hairy legs and my daughter lost interest in dolls a long time ago.

            Now what?

            So many people lose it right here. They break down because the little ones are gone. It’s another sting from an empty nest. You were lucky enough to realize the work that goes into preparing a Christmas for little ones is the best part of the holiday, and now it’s gone.  No gift was ever better than watching my boys open up their lightsabers.  That gift doesn’t exist.  But I’m still ticking, and the calendar rounds its way to December every year, so what do I do?  Flip through photo albums and cry like a mom in an Old Spice commercial?  No way.

            Just like you adjust your life when the kids arrive, and when they grow up, you adjust your holiday.  I’ve been running this show for twenty years, anyway.  Now, it’s for me. (Well, me and the Mrs., but since I’m the grand poobah of the season, it’s really my Christmas.)

            I do as much as I want or as little as I want.  If I wasn’t to change something, I do it. If I want to decorate, I do it.  If I feel like going overboard, I do that shit, too.  Define your own holiday.  I don’t expect all my kids to appreciate anything; that’s a fool’s errand.  I feel no pressure other that the pressure I wish to feel.  It is a gift I give myself and my blood pressure thanks me.

            So for anyone feeling the squeeze of the holiday, just define it yourself.  If you truly value the season you can still enjoy it on your own terms and take your loved ones along for the ride. It is still a weird, unique time of year and there are still people who appreciate it.  And to those to don’t, New Year’s Eve is a week away, and that completely meaningless and useless holiday is made just for you.

My Anxiety Files – Battling the Albatross of Negativity

This is as smiley as I get.

           It will take a few paragraphs to describe the smile on my face, and yes that is a smile.  I’m not good at the whole posing for the camera thing.  I don’t have a smiley-type face, either.  My default expression is one of slight disappointment, if I needed to define it.  Nothing too sad, just the look on your face when you thought they called your name to pick up your coffee, but it turns out it was someone else.  Aw, dude…

            I may have this puss on because I grew up in a negative home.  I’m not here to disparage my parents, but I have to set a stage.  The collective fears of the home manifested themselves into catch phrases, drinking, and not a lot of hope.  Life’s a bitch, then you die.  Shit happens.  You can’t win ‘em all.  My brother and I both characterize those times by doing an impression of my parents.  After telling a depressing story of something not working out in their favor; as they sipped a beer of took a drag off a cigarette, they would shrug their shoulders and say: Story of my life.

            As you may imagine this did not do much for our outlook on life.  It not only made me feel most things were unattainable and impossible; they weren’t even worth trying in the first place. Couple those happy thoughts with some anxiety and you have me.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was doing anything to not think about myself and the decisions I had to make.  I didn’t drink to distract myself, but I distracted myself nonetheless. (Thanks, TV.)

            Cut to me as a father of three and a mostly functioning, self-aware adult.   I don’t want my kids to think life is just endless limitations, nor or do I want to fill their heads with Pollyanna horseshit about ‘you can do anything you set your mind to’.  That sounds harsh, but belief that you can do something only gets you started.  I stressed that there are plenty of things you can attain in this country, but the work to get them varies greatly.  Basically, if you want A you have to work very hard.  If you want B, you won’t have to work as hard, but you won’t make the same money as A.  If you want to follow your dream and go after C, the odds are pretty tough, but if you are dedicated you have a shot.  It doesn’t fit on a bumper sticker; and it shouldn’t because we’re talking about children’s lives here.

            But above all else, I tried to be positive.  I struggled with my anxiety for so long as they were small, and there is a lot of crap I would like to take back.  I wasn’t anywhere near perfect.  But, I kept trying to be better.  I wanted them to tell me about how they were progressing. I wanted them to tell me their stories of their day, even though none of them are big talkers.   It was so important to me that they felt like they mattered, and they were allowed to screw up, but above all else, they had to keep trying. We never hounded them about activities.  Just find something and make a few new friends. You can quit, but you better have something else lined up to try, even if it’s just self -improvement like exercise, reading or getting better grades.

            Trying is a manifestation of being positive. Trying is an indicator of hope. 

            For me, I had to be medicated.  I know some people don’t like to hear that.  Some people think that’s cheating.  You are free to think whatever you like, I just know that without my pills, my life would be very different.  You see, that smile in that picture would not have happened a mere four years ago.  Going to a comedy show, which is still a rarity in my life, was like this: Sit down, the lights go dark. Then the thoughts roll in. Worry that I spent too much money.  Worry about going to my shitty job on Monday.   Wish I could get out more often but I’m too broke.  Regret that I never had a comedy career.  Get pissed at the guy in the corner who is shitfaced and is laughing like an asshole.  Get pissed at myself because I’m too negative.

            Notice I didn’t mention anything about enjoying the show?  That’s how life used to be, nearly every moment of every day.  Dread and despair. 

            The pills correct the chemicals in my brain so my ability to enjoy things is at a normal level.  They aren’t uppers or downers or goofballs.  They adjust an abnormality in my head.  Like my glasses help me see clearer.  The cushioning in my shoes protect me from calluses and foot pain.  My belt keeps my pants up.

When I went to the comedy club where this photo was taken, I just laughed like an idiot and had a good time. No negative, poisonous thoughts whatsoever. It was like normal people.  I laughed and my wife and I had a fun night out.  On the outside it looks as exciting as picking out butter at Albertson’s.

After the show was finished, we left the showroom into the hall where the Sklars were having a meet and greet and selling merch.  I walked right up to them and asked for a photo, and they complied because they are cool guys who have done this thousands of times.  I thanked them and left and smiled the entire drive home.  No big deal. Well, not anymore.

My Anxiety Files - Waiting For The Other Shoe

Meet my anxiety.  He's the law-talkin' guy.

             I am home today finishing the computer part of my job.  I am a little hungry, but not too much.  I finished some decaf, and now I am drinking ice water. I’m getting paid tomorrow, the money is okay, it’s not too hot, I feel okay, and all my laundry is done.  All that aside, there is a sensation in the bottom of my spine that to breathe a sigh of relief would spell disaster for everything.  I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Here’s the thing:  I feel pretty good.  It’s true.  We are climbing out of a financial hole caused by a few crappy years, are kids are in good health and heading in a good direction, and summer is giving way to fall.  I like my job, I’m in charge, I have a handle on some things.  My wife will soon be making more money and she is in good spirits.  My house is in good shape and I am thankful.

            But, I am so afraid to feel good about anything because of that other shoe.  Oh mercy, when will the bad thing happen?  When will the disaster happen that not only puts life into some kind of balance that’s completely constructed in my mind, but inevitably has to materialize because I had the nerve to feel good about my life for a few hours?

            People with anxiety can’t help but internalize the events around them.  Accidents and unforeseen tragedies can’t just happen due to the randomness of the universe.  I must have willed it to happen.  I felt like life was okay, and that somehow was interpreted as thumbing my nose to the infinite wisdom of the universe or God or Buddha or whomever you feel would care about such things. The universe, in turn, created a disaster for me just to teach me a lesson.  So, to protect myself, I won’t feel good about anything.  That way, I won’t risk bad stuff happening.  That’s how it works, right? Life itself is a jack in the box, and every day we turn the crank, waiting for a stupid clown to pop out and scare the piss out of us.  (By the way, what a fucked up toy that was…)

            Are you thinking to yourself: Isn’t that a crappy way to live…?  You’re right.  It is a crappy way to live.  The other shoe is why so many people can’t feel joy.  It is as ingrained in our brains as fight or flight and peaches are sweet and delicious.  It is a defense mechanism that a lot of us spend our lives dismantling. Living in the moment, breathing, mindfulness are exercises to deconstruct that other shoe. Of course, others don’t realize it is a problem.  Others build entire thought processes and belief systems around fear of the inevitable doom around the corner.  I don’t want to live like that.  I’d rather enjoy all of the days between now and the possible day everything goes to hell, than stay in fear of that day for my life.

            But I have that feeling, though.  My anxiety just eats it up.  You feel fine, but what about that mole?  Should you get it checked out?  Your car is fixed and is running again, but what if something else happens this week?  Do you have the money? Is that person mad at me? It is comical how much my brain looks for potential flaws and pitfalls, even when the evidence doesn’t support a damn thing.  My anxiety is a low-rent lawyer with no legitimate case.  My anxiety is Lionel Hutz.

            You know that archaic and trite phase that is so overused yet is secretly some of the best advice in the world: Take it one day at a time?  My only advice to deal with the other shoe is a version of that.  Every time you feel that sense of doom lurking, don’t try to destroy it completely.  It’s too hard to do on your own.  Just put it off one day.  “I’ll feel like this tomorrow.  I’m not going to entertain this thought until tomorrow.”  Then, the next day, repeat the process. It’s as if procrastination can finally work in our favor.  Plus, you may get to feel the joy you’ve earned in your life.