It’s official. I’m obsessed. What’s frustrating is, I’m obsessed with something I’m not ready to talk about here, but I’m a blogger, so it’s my natural instinct to want to talk about it here. I’m obsessed with the applications I’ve eluded to, and the responses I’m NOT getting, the Mail that is NOT arriving, the worst case scenarios I am trying to be prepared for, and the best case scenarios that I’m trying not to want too badly.
Two months ago, I was healthy about this. I was confident and as laid-back as I’m capable of being. I had faith. Two weeks ago, I was anxious but ready. Two hours ago, I was in total denial of my escalating panic and worry. Two minutes ago, I realized I was sitting on the very edge of my chair, with my face three inches from the glass of my iMac, staring at some college student’s livejournal page where she mentioned letters she’s received from places whose letters I haven’t received yet.
Two minutes ago, I entered into obsessed.
It’s been bad enough coming home from the subway every evening. I’ve turned the corner onto my street, realized the Mail was waiting for me in the lobby of our apartment, and suddenly wished for a full flask of vodka strapped to my leg to help me cope with the rising nausea and anxiety. It’s like the Oscars, all this mail-waiting. I’d much prefer to get phone calls out of the blue – phone calls are a sudden-onset sort of anxiety, brought about when the phone rings. They don’t have the constant ritualistic guarantee that for seven minutes while walking up your own street, you will be terrified of your OWN MAIL.
If my first response (which I mentioned last week) had either been 1. positive or 2. from someplace I wasn’t sort of expecting a positive reply, then I wouldn’t be as bad off this week as I am. As it is, I’ve never wished so hard to be drunk all the time, just as a coping strategy.
You’ll note that I managed to fill four nervous paragraphs with anxiety and hang-wringing without ONCE giving you all the satisfaction of really explaining what I’m talking about because my domino-conga-line of superstition won’t let me talk too much, too openly, until I know whether or not I’m getting what I want. On a certain level, I’ve already said too much. But I don’t think Stuart’s willing to scrape the exploded carcass of my balled-up energy off the walls of our apartment, so I guess I’ve said just enough to get myself through another Walk to the Front Door.
Two minutes ago, I forgot all the good advice I got about how freaking myself out to the point of blanching isn’t actually going to have any affect on the outcome of this process, nor will it make me feel any better if I get bad news to have known that I was freaking out for a good reason, that YES, I am the Cassandra of my own disappointment. I’m currently grappling through the crashing waves to find that lifevest of calm again, yes, I am.
So before you very justifiably tell me how I’m working myself up for nothing, I just want to let you know that I KNOW that if you were sitting across from me at the bar, friends, here’s the moment where I notice how hard I’m squeezing that nice comforting hand you’d extended across the table to stroke my arm, the stroking you thought would coax me into an altogether lower plane of tension (without resorting to marijuana). I’m self-aware enough to know what my own panicked face looks like. Wow, look! I’ve drained the blood from your fingers. You okay? Me? I’m FINE. I’ll be FINE. YEAH. No, totally fine.
Don’t I look fine?

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