Recently my therapist told me I had big balls. The was said as a euphemism, of course, not as a scientific observation. A scientific observation would clearly have been a boundary violation for both of us, since she’s my very professional therapist, and I’m a (very professional) homosexual. (I don’t mean that I’m getting paid to be gay, Mom, just that this is a full-time orientation for me and I take it seriously.) Anyway, moving on. We were talking about how I often approach celebrity authors at book signings, and my therapist said, “I’d never have the courage to do that,” to which I replied, “Really?”

“Really,” she said. “And putting your entire emotional life on the internet? That takes guts. You’ve got some BIG BALLS.”

I shifted in my seat. “Uh–thanks?”

This afternoon I had lunch with a friend, and while we were eating missed a call from the insurance company of the guy who slammed into the back of me last July (while I was on my way to a funeral) because some asshole in front of us decided to suddenly stop traffic in order to save the life of a fucking turtle, an act of heroism for which I am extremely bitter and therefore continue to take to the Lord in prayer. But I digress. When lunch was over, I called the insurance company back, hoping that they’d “come to their senses” and were ready to offer me a decent settlement, something more in line with what my friends in the business have recommended I accept.

Alas, this was not the case. They didn’t budge.

Hanging up the phone, I thought, That’s it, I’m finally tired of this shit. Two hours later, I was meeting with an attorney to go over the case. And whereas older men, attorneys, and older men attorneys normally intimidate my inner gay child, I was completely at ease with this person, whom I found to be informative, matter-of-fact, and honest. For over an hour we discussed my options, as well as insurance companies and juries (neither of which, by the way, apparently have a lot of compassion for people who get the shit knocked out of them and are looking to be compensated for their lost time, money, and physical agility). “Okay,” I said, getting ready to leave his office, “I need some time to think about everything.”

For the next few hours, I was an absolute wreck. (Pardon the pun.) Not that I was nervous or anxious exactly, but as my therapist would say, “It was a lot of information,” so my mind was running wild. I kept thinking, What if I make the wrong decision?

In an effort to calm myself down and ruminate, I went for a jog this evening. Y’all, it was one of my best jogs ever–5.8 miles, nonstop–over two times my longest distance this year. (I just started back a couple weeks ago.) And whereas my body is currently screaming at me, the jog was great emotionally. I felt like I’d really done something, more than I thought I was capable of starting out. Granted, it’s two hours later and I can’t feel my feet, but still. Plus, the jog did work to calm me down. Apparently when you spend an hour treating your body like it’s twenty years younger than it actually is, you end up being too damn tired to actually care about car accidents, insurance agents, or attorneys.

Like, right now I’d settle this case for a year’s supply of BenGay and two gallons of Epsom Salts.

But back to my strictly-meant-as-a-euphemism big balls. While ruminating during my jog, I thought about how I often, frequently, and almost always get nervous or worked up about–well, nearly everything–but especially interactions with people of higher status. This category of people includes anyone prettier, richer, more famous (like celebrities), or more powerful (like attorneys) than I am, and certainly includes people working for insurance companies (because in my mind they’re so big and scary). That being said, I realized while running that I’ve been through A LOT OF SHIT in my life, and I’ve had A LOT of tough conversations, most of which I had while my heart was beating on the inside of my chest like a Jehovah’s Witness knocks on the outside of your door, but I had them. Y’all, I hate it when my heart beats like that, but in my experience the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing you’re afraid of doing–introduce yourself to a celebrity, have a hard conversation, tell an insurance agent to go hell. Tonight I thought, I’ve already done so many frightening things in my life–I refuse to roll over now. This is what I’m learning, that being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair (of big balls, Mom) and run toward.