I’m not freaking out that I’m turning 31 this week. It just so happens that I am freaking out this week.
Why? I don’t fucking know, but my hands are shaking. I went to Vegas last week (which was soooo much fun) and was told it’s the post-Vegas blues. Yea, OK, but it’s been a week now. I’m still stressed out. I have to post this blog, for one. I have to finish my script. I have to WRITE, in general. Much more than I am. I just moved and I don’t feel settled in yet. I need to find a good, healthy routine. I’m afraid of falling into old patterns in my new relationship. That terrifies me. Among other things. I’m afraid a lot, actually.
For instance, living alone in my new apartment. Fine. I mean, I even have a door now, with a lock on it! And there’s a gate to the backyard, also with a lock on it. (Huge upgrade from my previous sliding glass door.) But I lay awake thinking, someone could easily hop the fence. Someone could easily pick the lock. So what would I do? Well, I have a back door. They surely don’t know about the back door. I’ll quietly sneak out and hop my neighbor’s fence. I stand in my backyard, peering into my neighbor’s yard through the bushes, figuring out exactly where I will hop the fence, and, once in his yard, how I will get out. I spot a gate on the other side of his yard. I can go through there. If it’s locked, I’m sure I could get over it.
I’m very emotional. Which, is not typical of me. Where I come from (New Jersey), crying is a sign of weakness. You suck it up and deal with (suppress) it.
Obviously, I know it’s OK to cry. But Jesus Christ, I have been crying at the most in-opportune moments. Cry in your car? Sure. Cry at work? Eh, maybe not so much. And don’t fucking hug me. Then you’re just asking for it. Jimmy practically chased me around the restaurant trying to hug me and I had to run out the back door to get away from him.
I know, I know. Meditation, working out, blah blah blah. I know.
I am fine. I am happy. My life is great. Or at least headed towards great. I’m just overwhelmed. So I’m venting. That’s all.
…and I’m going to be 31. Fuck.