I haven’t posted here in quite a while, because, well, pressure. WordPress is supposed to be my “professional” site, and suddenly I have some bizarre form of stage fright when I come here. I realize stage fright is normal, but I don’t personally have it. That’s because, in real life, once I’ve assessed whether a stranger poses a threat, I don’t care what he thinks of me.
I do occasionally suffer from some social anxiety regarding people whose opinions might
matter impact me in a way that matters. Job interviewers, for example, or family members with whom I’m only distantly acquainted. People in the publishing industry. I suppose I am still sorting by threat level. If this person hates me, will he just not hire me? Or will he ruin my chances of ever publishing a novel? Or perhaps he will only destroy me emotionally but leave my writing intact?
Whenever I have to do something anxiety-producing, I like to swipe a pair of my husband’s socks and wear those– especially if the thing I have to do involves driving in treacherous weather or confrontation/negotiation of any kind, because those are kind of his super-powers. But when, at school, we had to present our design ideas to the college marketing team, everybody was so nervous about it, I thought I should be nervous also. Maybe I would not get nervous until the presentation actually began. I was only nervous about nervousness I didn’t even feel!
One of Mr Moth’s super powers is not public speaking, and we were supposed to dress business-y, so tube socks were not acceptable anyway, but when I was poking through my jewelry box for something to put on, I found this guitar pick, which he got at a Kiss concert back in the day. I thought, Gene Simmons doesn’t have any problem being in front of groups of strangers! and I tucked the pick in the breast pocket of my jacket.
The presentation went ok, and we all survived, but much later when I remembered the pick and went to take it out of the jacket and put it away, it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the jewelry box, either. And by then I couldn’t remember if I had washed the jacket or not; I’d only worn it for a few hours, so hard to tell. I checked the jewelry box probably a dozen times, if not more, and it wasn’t there. Earlier this week I broke down and told Mr Moth it was gone, that I had lost it. He was bummed.
Earlier, in between bouts of crushing fatigue, I started reorganizing the contents of my dresser and closet. I moved some non-clothing items into the office. This week I started reorganizing the office. And inside the jewelry box, where it had always been kept, and where I had looked probably a dozen times, was the pick. In plain sight. Right next to the fake pearls I wore to get married and Mr Moth’s class ring and some other inexpensive but important keepsakes.
Now I can hang onto it while I hit “post entry.”