A couple weeks ago I started going through my crap-room. (“What’s a crap-room,” you ask? Well, it’s kind of like a craftroom, except you don’t really do crafts at the moment so stuff is just piled everywhere and because you don’t really use the room, you pile more than just craft stuff in there. You pile ALL THE THINGS in there until you pretty much have a room full of crap.)
Anyway, I was going through the crap-room and boxing up a bunch of craft stuff that I could honestly say I probably would never use. After I had it boxed up, I sent a message to a Facebook friend. You see, I promised her weeks and weeks ago that I’d give her the stuff I no longer wanted. The message was simple enough. Something like, “Hey. Here’s a bunch of craft crap I no longer want? Do you want it? You don’t have to say ‘yes’. Either way, no biggie.”
Of course she said she wanted it¹.
The fucking anxiety hit. You see, I haven’t seen this person in over twenty-five years. I’m not the same person I was back then. She’s not the same person she was back then. And what if my anxiety of re-meeting her kills me?
I knew that if I didn’t immediately throw the boxes and bags into the car and get over there, I’d flake out and not bring her the stuff. I’m like that sometimes. My anxiety gets the best of me and people think I just flake out.
And you know what?
It was a wonderful visit. Her kids are nice. Their cats are nice. And she is simply amazing.²
¹I mean, who *wouldn’t* want boxes and boxes of craft stuff, right?!!?
²Of course I forgot to say polite things like “It was nice to meet you.” to the kids, and “Thanks for having me over.” But…hey at least I got out of the house, actually made it to her place, AND I’m pretty sure I didn’t say the word “fuck” one time. #winning