Boston, Here I Come?

Tomorrow I leave for Boston. I have an appointment at Cradles to Crayons at 1pm and I'm considering leaving about five hours ahead of time (it only takes two) because I'm so nervous.

I know I'm going to have terribly worrisome dreams tonight.

What if I get lost? What if I'm late? What if I get flustered and make a fool of myself? After all, I've only spoken to them on the phone, and anyone can sound calm and collected over the phone, right? What if they don't like me? What if I don't like them? What if it's great, and then I realize I can't afford to live in Boston?

This makes me think of a piece I wrote during my last semester about being scared:

I can remember when I was six years old, begging my mom to say goodnight to me just one more time as I clung to her prickly, summer legs from my bottom bunk. I would say anything to keep her in there with me for just a moment longer. I was thirsty, I couldn't sleep, my head hurt, I needed to go to the bathroom, I needed to talk about something extra-important that I mysteriously forgot as soon as she agreed to listen. I was petrified.

It had been fire prevention week in my elementary school. Whoever thought that having huge firemen come visit little children while wearing scary firemen-gear and big masks was out of their mind. They told us horror stories of children touching hot doorknobs and forgetting to stop-drop-and-roll and getting trapped in third-story apartment buildings. We needed to have an escape route and practice it with our families. We had to leave our precious dogs and cats behind to die in the inferno. Oh, and we couldn't be scared of these super-scary men when they came to our window and tried to grab us up.

Gee, if there's one way to scare a first-grader, it's by showing them something ridiculously intimidating and telling them not to be afraid of it.

Needless to say, my anxiety and endless worrying began right there in first grade. Every night I was convinced that my family was going to die in our burning house and I tried to stay awake as long as I could to avoid falling victim to the blaze.

Children can be so illogical. Now I have real worries and fears. House fires? Please. I'm afraid of more important things, like throwing up. I will do anything to keep myself from throwing up. I couldn't be bulimic even if I wanted to be. If only my six-year-old self could have known that there are more important things to be afraid of, like getting blisters from fabulous new shoes. I'm telling you, the horror of painful heels.

I constantly back up the files on my computer, fearing that the blue screen of death will one day appear and eat them all up. I have countless CDs with things like "High School, Tenth Grade, Creative Writing Assignments" and "Bowling, August 19, 2001 Photos" scrawled in Sharpie ink. I will positively die if my computer crashes. Not being able to check my email 45 seconds after I wake up, and every four minutes subsequently? Perpetual fear.

What if I get sunspots from too much tanning during these crucial years of my life? Will this lead to wrinkles and a sagging mouth? What will happen if I miss church this Sunday? If I cancel my therapist's appointment within 24 hours of the scheduled session, do you think I'll still be charged? If I make my Mastercard payment a day late, will I my credit score allow me to buy a house when I'm 30? Will I ever be able to get into grad school with this GPA if I get less than a B+ on my poetry explication? What if my graduation gown is too short, and my stockinged ankles show too much? If only I knew when I was a silly, six-year-old, fool.

Come to think of it, graduation worries me a lot. And not even the "What am I going to wear?" aspect of it, but more of the "What am I going to do with my life afterwards?" part. After I march through Gampel Pavilion and receive that diploma, they will release me to sea. I've been rehabilitated and trained long enough, and they think I am now capable of surviving on my own. Am I? Will all those vicious predators in the world eat me up and spit me out before I can even take my first breath? I can just see it now--I'll be stuck living in my parents' house until I'm 38, with a dead end job as a full-time sales associate and still without a decent hairdresser.

Gina Barreca must have really known me well, because she told me I was good at writing about what scares me, and when I actually wrote it, it was surprisingly easy. I guess I'm too good at being scared of too many things.

Like interviews that could affect the rest of my life.

Wish me luck!