It’s six in the evening, and I just finished going to therapy and having coffee with a friend. By coffee, I mean hot tea, I just don’t think tea sounds as cool as coffee. Unless you’re British, of course, which I’m not, and neither is my friend. Anyway, my friend had to leave, so now I’m hanging out by myself at the coffee shop. I mean, there are other people here–about twenty–they’re just not sitting at my table. That would be weird, since I don’t know them. And crowded, since my table only seats four.

I told my therapist that lately I’ve been feeling “blah,” that I hate the cold weather, that my body’s felt “just okay,” and that I haven’t made a dollar in two weeks. “Two weeks?” she said. “That’s not a big deal. Let’s talk when it’s two years. Do you have a roof over your head, food in your belly, and gas in your car?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then relax,” she said. “You need to calm the fuck down.”

So I’m working on that.

Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is just–what’s the word?–hunky-fucking-dory.

Now it’s six-thirty, and I’ve been sitting in this chair for three solid hours. When I first got here, the place was warm, but someone must have turned on the air conditioner. Never mind the fact that it’s literally freezing cold outside. I don’t know, maybe it’s just because so many people have left. Body heat is like, a thing.

I’m planning to go to a dance in a little while. That should help warm me up. Plus, it’s nice–well, usually nice–to be around people. I’ve been cooped up at home with my parents and Days of Our Lives for the last three days, and whereas I love my parents (and sometimes actually like Days of Our Lives), it’s good to have a change of pace. A little social interaction. A conversation or two.

Everything is fine.

Just before I left therapy, I told my therapist that I recently blogged about commitment versus obligation, two things she and I discussed in our last session. She said it was okay to feel “some obligation” to things, like to this blog. And that’s good, since I definitely feel that at times. Take now, for instance. I’m distracted and ready to get out of here. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed lately, and I don’t know HOW to calm the fuck down. The last thing I want to do is sit here and sit in my feelings. Seriously, sitting in your feelings every day, every damn day, can get old real quick.

Last night while cleaning my room I found a caricature of me that was drawn in 1994, back when I was a big bowler. My sister and I were actually part of a league–The Wednesday Juniors. This was our idea of organized sports. We had handicaps and everything. We even went to several tournaments, collected a few patches. Woo. Anyway, I’m not sure why it’s relevant now. I just remember that Arkansas ball cap. I used to wear it all the time. And I remember how I’d get nervous and my palms would sweat before it was my turn to throw the ball, especially if I needed to hit so many pins in order to progress to the next round. But then I’d hold my hand over the air vent, pick up my ball, and find my spot on the lane. Then I’d take a deep breath and throw the ball.

Sometimes it was a strike, sometimes a gutter. More often, it was something in between.

My therapist says that in life you need to be prepared to fall on your face hundreds of times, sometimes thousands. Believe it or not, this was said as an encouragement. But I get it, not every moment of every day is a strike. Life is full of gutter balls and in-between moments. It’s certainly full of sweaty-palm moments. Full of I-don’t-know-what-to-do moments. So we do the best we can. We tell ourselves, “Everything is fine.” We try to find our place, we take a deep breath, and we try again.