Day 18 : I’m Not Freaking Out

I assume that at some point in my life, I’ve had a day that I wasn’t freaking out about something. In fact, most of my days involve me not freaking out about something. But tomorrow? I’m doing something that really truly freaks me out.

Stop thinking about it. You’ll be fine.

I decided that the best thing I could do for myself on a day like today, was to simply be kind to myself.

How terrible would it be if I died doing this silly project of mine? Oh god! What if something goes wrong and I’m paralyzed?

I ran a quick errand. Bought some sour cherry juice at the Whole Paycheck store. And then decided to drop by my very unfavorite-but-nearby mall, the Grove.

Just find something new to eat and get home so you can pretend you’re not freaked out.

Technically, I was wandering around the Farmer’s Market, but I refuse to use their maddening parking lot. Which means I only have an hour before my free parking runs out. It’s a completely ridiculous system.

You’re thinking about tomorrow again, aren’t you? Cut it the hell out.

Aimlessly, but speedily wandering through the various food stalls, I prayed that something would pop out at me.

Isn’t there supposed to be a Pinkberry’s somewhere around here? I bet some Pinkberry would make you forget about tomorrow.

And then it did suddenly hit me. Small, round, colorful. French macarons. I ordered 4 different flavors, happy that I could go home after this and prepare for tomorrow.

Did you ever remember to change out your insurance card last month? You’re going to need that if you seriously hurt yourself.

Driving home, starting to feel more panicked by the minute, I realized that the radio was playing a series of Strauss waltzes.

Circus music? Really? REALLY? Did you not hear my brain screaming at me to stop thinking about tomorrow? You, Mr. Universe, are a total prick.

Cookies in hand, I was relieved to make it home in one piece. It had occurred to me that it would be ironic if I had a car accident before tomorrow even arrived. It also occurred to me that that might not be irony.

Eat one! Eat it now! Better eat it now before you seriously maim yourself tomorrow.

Now, I had temporarily put the cookies in my purse for a brief amount of time. And, French macarons are quite fragile. So, when I retrieved them, they looked a bit like this:

french macarons

Smashed. Smooshed. Cracked. Hurt. Broken.

It’s an omen I tell you. A god-damned omen! 

Bad omen aside, I did eat those cookies. They weren’t nearly the revelation that the devotees of Pinterest had made them out to be, but they were sugary and helped me forget the terror I was feeling about tomorrow.

For about five minutes.


You’re trying to tell me that you’re going to willingly wear spandex tomorrow? In front of people? It would be a pity for a woman your age to die wearing spandex.


Probably less.




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