“A little too thirtysomething, eh?” he sets out when he realizes the nature of my discomfort. A little, yeah.
We’re driving back from dinner at Alison and Phil’s. Driving back from the suburbs. In a 4-door stationwagon. Chatting about gas prices and chicken recipes.
I swallow back the rising panic and try to ease my stubby fingernails up from digging crescents into my palms. “A little. Yeah.”
I’m hard-pressed to come up with the whys. Sitting here in the sunlight of a Monday morning, there are no dim monsters rising up out of the shadows leaking out from under my bed and closet. At least none that I can see or describe to you. It definitely wasn’t anything in the course of the dinner visit.
In fact, dinner was fantastic. More than fantastic. We talked about that chicken that Alison made for a couple days afterwards, it was so good. Perfectly tender and lemony. And strawberry-filled cupcakes! From scratch! And their place is enviably everything you’d want from a converted theatre--all arched entryways and muted earthtones and dark wood and good music. Everything I’d want and expect from Alison. And of course I just love Alison, and so by association, Phil.
What it was maybe I can’t fully explain in words. Self-asphyxiation of something I can’t even give voice to, just by acknowledging the fear hovering over everything I say and do. I want my life to have meaning and yet run from the possible gravity of the decisions I could be making. And yet, what gravity? What decisions? None and none, by my own definition and disinclination. So why is it that a simple dinner with friends fills me with an overwhelming sense of panic?
It’s just that I’m sitting there, in the car, and the air becomes thinner, everything starts to press in and I slowly begin to melt into the seat. Yes. A little too thirtysomething, indeed.
We’re driving back from dinner at Alison and Phil’s. Driving back from the suburbs. In a 4-door stationwagon. Chatting about gas prices and chicken recipes.
I swallow back the rising panic and try to ease my stubby fingernails up from digging crescents into my palms. “A little. Yeah.”
I’m hard-pressed to come up with the whys. Sitting here in the sunlight of a Monday morning, there are no dim monsters rising up out of the shadows leaking out from under my bed and closet. At least none that I can see or describe to you. It definitely wasn’t anything in the course of the dinner visit.
In fact, dinner was fantastic. More than fantastic. We talked about that chicken that Alison made for a couple days afterwards, it was so good. Perfectly tender and lemony. And strawberry-filled cupcakes! From scratch! And their place is enviably everything you’d want from a converted theatre--all arched entryways and muted earthtones and dark wood and good music. Everything I’d want and expect from Alison. And of course I just love Alison, and so by association, Phil.
What it was maybe I can’t fully explain in words. Self-asphyxiation of something I can’t even give voice to, just by acknowledging the fear hovering over everything I say and do. I want my life to have meaning and yet run from the possible gravity of the decisions I could be making. And yet, what gravity? What decisions? None and none, by my own definition and disinclination. So why is it that a simple dinner with friends fills me with an overwhelming sense of panic?
It’s just that I’m sitting there, in the car, and the air becomes thinner, everything starts to press in and I slowly begin to melt into the seat. Yes. A little too thirtysomething, indeed.
Alison's strawberry cupcakes, which were delicious:
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