Everybody does something when they're nervous. It's a little embarrassing to admit, for some reason, what soothes me. I get on the phone and pace. Barbara putters. I want a bowl of comfort food, something warm and brown (apple crisp, beef stew—it makes no bloody difference). Barbara smokes. And now, I blog.
I will attempt not to use this as my pacifier. If you find these entries as fascinating as watching an obsessive-compulsive arrange things in perfectly-spaced, right-angled stacks (100 times), I take some comfort in knowing that you can just close the damn window. My phone call recipients, alas, do not feel the same freedom and I am often unable to read their level of tedium while I rant.
My Puritan wishes that nervousness would make me clean house, exercise or pray. She lives in a constant state of disappointment. The old bitch.
P.S. In case you ever reread this, I need to add that I edit compulsively, hurricane or no hurricane. But it's worse pre-hurricane—I'm sure it's an air pressure thing. High pressure, I edit; Low pressure, I edit more often. So while this post may have originally been written at 11:30 a.m., Friday, September 23rd, it is subject to rewrite, I don't know, through next Easter.
Friday, September 23, 2005
not surprising
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2 comments:
Calm down. This is like having a baby, it is coming and there is nothing you can do to stop it or even slow it down. My thoughts are with you, hunker down, you will be OK, I promise.
Having given birth twice, I can assure you there is nothing calm about being in labor (without drugs)... However, I am sure we'll be fine. And we're hunkering, or in the words of a dear malaprop-enabled friend, we're bunkering down.
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