I have a lot of anxieties, most of which are completely pathetic and present themselves in awkward and embarrassing ways. (Gentle reader, I know what you're thinking..."Oh, here's just another anxiety-ridden chick blogging about how she's so wacky". Well, you're right. I'm pretty much your standard wackadoodle. The difference, my friends, is that I'm writing about my wacky anxiety on a blog named after a nice old lady's dinosaur. How many others can say that? I don't see 'Granny's Stegosaurus' or 'Auntie May's Velociraptor' or 'Nana's Ankylosaurus' speaking about their crazies. I am filling the "nice old lady + dinosaur named blog + crazy" niche. It's a tough job, but I'll do it for you.) And with that disclaimer, on to the anxieties!
I have the standard concerns everyone else does: What if I don't get that job, what if my house catches on fire, what if my cat runs away (ok...this isn't a concern. This is a wish. A fervent wish. Anyone looking to acquire a cat should talk to me. I'll hook you up), and what if that muffin I just ate was secretly filled with super soldier serum and now I'm going to turn into Captain America (except I can't be Captain America because that's taken, so I think I'll turn into Lady Muffinpants and then I'll have to fight crime but try to keep my secret identity a secret so I'll have to find a costume but I don't wear glasses so I can't use those. Wait! Lady Muffinpants can wear glasses. Then I take them *off* to be me. Hopefully one of my powers will be the ability to keep glasses affixed to my face when I'm kicking ass. Excellent, got that figured out.), you know, worries anyone else has. I feel fine being concerned about those things. However, for every completely legit worry I have, there are 3.47 more that are just ridiculous. For example:
I worry that someone will catch me listening to "Single Ladies" on the train and be all "Hey you. You're married. That song is not for you." and make me delete it from my iPod after calling me out in front of everyone.
I stress about whether my T-Shirts are getting equal attention. I think that maybe I wear my Lego Star Wars shirt too often and that my Stargate shirt is crying inside my dresser because it doesn't feel good enough about itself. It's cool Stargate shirt, you're just a little tight around the boobs because you were made for boys. (I feel like I shouldn't have said that bit about my boobs. But hey, I has them. Deal.) But I still like you, all my shirts. I just have a big people job now and have to wear boring shirts (which brings up it's own set of problems), so it's hard to give each shirt love.
I get little mini-panic attacks that I forgot to turn off something in my apartment. I'll be elbow deep in work and then completely have to stop what I'm doing because I think "HOLY SHIT I LEFT MY TOASTER PUSHED DOWN" and then I can't get a hold of my husband on the phone (which of course means he's dead in a ditch from a vicious wild turkey attack. Yes, there are wild turkeys that sometimes roam the parking lot of his office building. We're classy down in Georgia.) to see if he remembers the toaster being down so it bothers me ALL day until I get home and remember that I haven't even USED the toaster for like a week.
I could go on, but then this post would reach epic lengths and I have to be anxious about that and I'd make this rambling recursive post about anxieties.
All of these little problems mix together to create my ultimate-anxiety: driving. I've mentioned before how evil I find driving. I recently got new car insurance and found out I qualified for the little old lady mileage rate because I avoid driving at all costs. I am 78.5% sure that I am going to die every time I get behind the wheel...even if all I'm doing is moving my car 3 parking spots closer to the stairs. I get all nervous and twitchy and spend like 20 minutes adjusting the seats and the mirrors so people think I'm all cautious and safe but really I'm just buying time until Kane gets home so can I turn on the puppy face and make him do it. That's one of his main husband functions - driving me places. (And using the phone. I hate the phone. I think it might eat me.) He earns a lot of husband points by being the driver, and even more for having to put up with a spastic navigator who regularly argues with/at (like, out loud) the GPS because even though I never go anywhere I totally know exactly how to get places and Richard (my GPS) is just being a dick.
My lack of driving kind of makes me this terrible social recluse, which is actually really pathetic and then I feel bad about it and am like "damnit, I'm going to drive the grocery store like a champ!". But then my initial anxiety is reaffirmed because every time I do drive, something ridiculous happens. In the last year of my attempts at driving I have:
- Had some drunk yokel almost drive me off the road because of my choice of college did not pass his surely rigorous standards.
- Watched same drunk yokel try to race an ambulance.
- Seen several people go from the emergency lane (after using it to pass people) to the far left lane in heavy traffic because they had some place to be so they dart around like a spastic monkey.
- Had someone tailgating me by a foot going 80mph because they never learned basic physics and are probably a twat.
- Had a friend who regularly texted/checked email/put on make-up/changed clothes (like, all the same time) while driving 15 over the speed limit, but it was "totally cool" because she "was totally focused on the road and could handle it unlike all those other morons." Yes sweetie, you're special, everyone else is just stupid.
- Been stuck next to a HOUSE. A straight-up house, which took up 2.5 lanes in 4pm-on-a-Friday-Fuck-You traffic and knocked off 3 people's side view mirrors.
I honestly don't know why anyone drives. I think all you drivers are nuts. I want to move to one of those awesome towns like kids in old school Nickelodeon (not this new crap...bleck) shows lived where you could ride your bike to anywhere. Like where Arthur (wait, I think that is PBS. Whatever. Also, he doesn't look like a freaking aardvark AT ALL in the cartoon. PBS is lying to your children) lives. That town was sweet. Though, then I'd need to get a bike which would probably create a new set of anxieties like if the blue helmet is going to make my head a funny shape if I wear it the wrong way.
PS: This is what Lady Muffinpants looks like. DC Comics, I'm open to a deal.