Sometimes, for no reason at all other than I might be slightly crazy, I'll start stressing out about my life. I don't know why this happens. Life hasn't thrown me a curve ball. Nothing is going extraordinarily awry. No little surprises have sprouted up lately. Everything is just as wild and turbulent as it always has been.
The ball is still rolling.
The wheel is still spinning.
The fire is still burning.
Everything is just as expected, which means that nothing is going just as expected.
So why am I suddenly getting nervous about something as mundane getting the oil changed in the car?
Why does Halloween suddenly seem like such a chore?
Why am I standing in the grocery store getting upset over avocados that aren't ripe enough for guacamole?
And why are you looking at me like that? You got a problem?
The only extended period of time I've ever felt this way was the five years I spent hauling my kids around in the womb, but I couldn't possibly be pregnant. Aside from the fact that I have remained (relatively) celibate for the last couple of years, I don't even have a uterus anymore, so I'm one hundred per cent positive that there are no little creatures growing inside of me, throwing my hormones out of whack and causing me to have fantasies about stuffing the sperm donor down the garbage disposal.
This constant state of worry stifles my creativity. I cannot think in complete sentences when I am stressed, let alone put them down on paper. No best-selling novels will be written today.
I need an outlet- something with fewer calories than chocolate and more satisfaction than watching rich people shop for houses on HGTV. I need to do something physical to burn this unexplained adrenaline pumping through my system.
(I should clean my house. I should organize my bookshelves. I should go jogging.)
Who am I kidding? I'll never go jogging.