I was making breakfast this morning in my underwear (the windows were fogged up from the cold outside). Making the second egg for egg/bagel/cheese breakfast sandwiches, I overdid the cooking spray. When I plopped the egg down, the butter spray splashed. Onto my belly. And now it’s not only extremely hairy, it’s got dozens of red bumps from tiny burns.
No, no pictures.
Or, at least, less afraid of everything? Or maybe so afraid of the BIG THING that everything else seems trivial. Or maybe I’m more comfortable with not caring about stupid things like my appearance.
Examples:
Calling someone a bad name that included the word “ugly” and a reference to her height because, well, she deserved to receive some grief. This was followed by a night of shame over freaking out like that. And a morning of being angry about being treated condescendingly that replaced any shame. Tip: Don’t be condescending to people just because you have the time to be.
Digging through piles of clearance stuff at a store where I saw really need wooden toys in the same place a few months ago. I was manic and didn’t care but still only found a busted doggy and ducky, neither of which were worth buying.
Wearing polo shirts/Tevas to meetings where I should be wearing at least at tie, if not a suit. Also wearing a thick beard to said meetings with high-ranking university officials (high enough to get my fired). At least I tucked my shirt in.
Leaning back in my chair with my hands over my head at meetings, staring out the window. I probably did this before (ADD), but now I know it. And drawing cartoons of the people present that they can probably see.
Actually threatened to break my still not fully function right hand over someone’s head if he attempts to break a certain banishment (long story) of which he himself was the author and which it is not my place to break or occlude said banishment — but where it is my place to support the banished party.
Ate breakfast with my luxuriously-round belly out because I didn’t feel like walking to my bedroom to get a shirt. I never ever ever do anything without a shirt except sleep and swim, and I don’t do either much lately. My 20s and my belly have not been friends. (Although apparently this makes me awesome?) Maybe my impending 30s and my belly will like each other more.
I have acquired the habit of yelling and waving at pedestrian-ignoring cars.
My non-healed injuries from this spring don’t worry me as much as annoy me. So what if I still can’t make a fist with my right hand, put weight on my left wrist or walk/cycle to much before my toe starts killing me? The thought of toe surgery is less scary and more of an annoyed case of, “Wait, how much longer will I be in crutches because of that stupid driver?”
These are probably not big deals to some people, but I’ve discovered that I am extremely fearful and anxious, despite my coffee-zen demeanor.
