Fatty Towel

Monday, December 26, 2005

Anxiety rolls off me like a wet blanket wrapped around my waist. It makes everything about me heavier, more concentrated: my heart pushes the blood through my tightened bloodstream, my stomach wraps itself tightly in knots, my muscles are weak even though I barely exerted them in my unnecessarily brisk walk. This is caffeine-free anxiety, which makes me wonder what I’m doing to my body when anxiety hits after a shot of coffee. I made my flight, although my body doesn’t know it yet, still in the animal response, which I’m trying unsuccessfully to calm down.

The plane is old, older than any I’ve been on in a long time. I’m typing while people are still loading. This flight will probably not take off on time, but I’m not worrying much about that. I’m still struggling through my earlier bout caused by not being two hours early. I have a long flight in front of me, and I’m hoping it goes by fast. I tried to read, but the words seemed worthless, my anxiety replaying missing the flight and the terror and annoyance that creates. The replay is worse than the cause: even had I missed the flight, the worst that would have happened would be a later arrival in Seattle, perhaps more time to scribble these thoughts (assuming anxiety did not swallow my efforts). I don’t know what it is about travel or appointments, but I need to make them. I hate that feeling, that knowledge that there is a chance I won’t.

That’s enough of this. I’m done with this. It’s time for me to log off and start doing something better to pass the time, like poking holes in my arms with paperclips.