Hogtied to Railroad Tracks
I have been feeling crazy, neurotic and insecure but also VERY BRAVE lately.
The "handout that got seriously out of hand," AKA my book, arrived by post early and so last week I had the brilliant idea of putting it in the hands of some local authors I greatly respect in order to get a quote or two for my website. Great idea, right? I thought so too until the day after hand-off when I suddenly realized I'd prepared for a photo shoot by applying all of my makeup- blindfolded in the dark and then, with the spotlight about to glare in my face I had no idea whether or not I was even wearing pants, had lipstick smudged across my cheeks or mascara in my hair.
My husband, bless his heart, loves me completely but stupidly refuses to see me as a damsel in distress. He seems to feel no need to rescue me and for some reason is quite certain I can and will rescue myself. He has no knight in shining armor complex, does not believe I'm hogtied to a railroad tracks and has this crazy idea I will work out my insanity on my own.
And so logically, I held a gun to his head and demanded he read the book so he could, once and for all, tell me if I had made an enormous mistake, was about to humiliate myself, should break into those writers' houses to steal my book back before quietly moving to another country. "OK, I'll read it," he said, but when I checked on him 20 minutes later he'd read two chapters and was back to practicing his impassioned speech about female genital mutilation and child marriage in Mali for his class presentation at VCU thinking for some reason that those girls were more in need of rescue than ME. Whatever.
"What did you think?" I asked him. "I don't like the formatting justification," he said. "Ok," I said. "What else did you think?" "It's good," he said. "What do you mean by 'good'"? I said. "JESUS CHRIST," he said. And so I went to make a cake but after pouring the oil realized we were out of eggs and so I went to buy some eggs but even fresh, hot, sweet vanilla chocolate cake made me feel no better.
And then I got up the courage to text one of the writer's I'd given a copy of the book. I'm having a panic attack, I told him. Can I call you? he asked. My heart sank. I knew that breaking the bad news required more than a text. But instead he said kind things, pushing all of my guts inside and zipping me back up the front. Sometimes I can save myself and sometimes I do need a hand cutting the ropes in time to avoid the train.