I do well enough most of the time. I used to be agoraphobic, and I still prefer having people over my house than going out. Partly because I have five kids and I loathe having my pack descend upon an unsuspecting friend’s home, and partly because I get nervous when I have to go to new places or put myself into new situations. I am functional. My kids have friends, we participate in field trips and park days. I can venture forth into the wilds of Target or the farmers market to shop and run errands without having a panic attack.
But some things still set me off. Having to go somewhere new, filling out forms, making phone calls, or even answering the phone (I prefer texts), checking voicemail, opening mail (poor James always has a towering stack of mail to go through whenever he comes home), even dealing with email or responding to Facebook messages can sometimes freak me out. If you’ve ever sent me a message and haven’t got a reply, this is why. I probably spazzed out, decided I would come back to it later and put it out of my mind forever.
So we got this bench for our dining room, and within a few months it broke when an average weight person plopped down to hard in the middle. The store told us they would replace it, and today is the day I bring the broken one in to get a new bench. I was hoping James would be home to sort it out when it was time to do this, but he is somewhere in Texas today. And we need it for Thanksgiving.
I feel a little anxious, because I can’t help but think they will be thinking “look at the fat girl, she broke the bench!” I know, it is pretty silly. But that keeps going through my head anyway.
Anxiety makes everything seem worse than it is. I used to cry just handing in a paper to the school office or going to an appointment by myself. I would whine and try to avoid it, but my grandma would scoff and say “Who do you think you are Joni, that everyone is going to be looking at you?”
It is ridiculous to me, that I should be tied up in knots over returning a bench.