Anxiety [ang-zahy-i-tee] - A state of apprehension, uncertainty, and fear resulting from the anticipation of a realistic or fantasized threatening event or situation, often impairing physical and psychological functioning.
Anxiety is such a powerful word, it must be why they went with an x when spelling it.
I try, as I assume many do, to maintain a smooth, confident exterior as much as possible. After all, I'm sure everyone was influenced by the brief, odd, 60s lyrics from West Side Story's "Cool" (followed by a really impressive dance sequence. I wonder how long it is until West Side Story is remade as a Steppin' Up sequel, and do I get credit for coming up with the idea here if I don't write the script?).
Still, I have learned that it is not the hard things in life that cause me the most trouble. Rather, it is the amount of hassle, frustration, stress, money, hours, energy, blood, sweat and tears I spend feeding the insatiable beast of my imagination. To put it simply, I am an anxious person.
I am anxious about work. I can say with reasonable confidence that I have established myself as not a total jackass at work. This has worked well in my favor over the past few years, but it also carries with it a decent amount of expectations. Those expectations are not always well defined, but they're understood. Proudly, my coworkers and I can say business is good, and we have made many improvements over the past 8 months. Now, we have to figure out how we did it, how we can do it again, how we can do it better, put it all to new papers/electronic documents/fancy shmancy powerpoint presentations, or update the old material to match. Aside from that, The Man was crazy enough to give me a team to rule with an iron fist again. The team is a pack of rock stars that hasn't had a direct manager for the past year, and they got by alright on their own. but now I'm in charge. So therefore, it is completely realistic for me to expect that I will improve their capabilities so that everything they (and by extension I) touch will turn to awesome pancakes. Or gold. Whatever you're in the mood for right now.
I am anxious about auditioning for another show. A local theatre is putting on The Producers, and I need my fix so I'm going to go for it. I mulled it over for a while, and a few weeks ago finally worked up the stones to send a two sentence email to find out when auditions would be held. Those were two very difficult sentences to write. "When are auditions? The website said to contact you for details, and I'm interested." Auditions are Sunday. Finding out this information gave me just over 2 weeks to ponder, debate, waver, and finally settle on going for it. 2 weeks is not enough time for the rituals involved in convincing myself to do something. Of course, that decision requires that I pick out 32 bars of music to perform on top of being ready for a dramatic reading and dance auditions. I am anxious about picking the best 32 bars ever performed.
I am anxious about not getting in to the show. Honestly, I don't expect to get any more than "Thank you, cast list will be posted online on Wednesday. NEXT!" By no means do I intend any offense to anyone I worked with in The Wizard of Oz production, but I expect these auditions to be at least a double step up talent-wise. This isn't community theatre doing a kids show. As far as I can tell, this is a paid gig man. I fully expect to be outclassed from the moment I pull around the extra long driveway to the parking lot and awkwardly try to spot signs or follow the cool people towards the auditions without speaking to anyone. Still, the possibility of being laughed out of town and having to shave my head and change my name is a very real and present threat that comes with auditioning for anything. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, it totally happens.
I am anxious about getting in to the show. What happens if I get the awesome lead? Can I devote the time and energy to another show this quickly? How often will I have to buy my wife flowers for when I'm at rehearsals? What happens when things get busier at work (which they will)? Will I have to donate my amazing girl hair? What happens if I actually get a part in the chorus? Will I be happy just to not be laughed out of town and to not have to fill out the paperwork for a name change? What if a different, better show comes along and I could land a better part? What if I'm so good I have to give up my life as an office worker to become the next king of the stage? What kind of a commute is it from upstate New York to Broadway?
I am anxious about the goals I set in this madman's self-improvement experiment of mine. When it comes to things I think I am required to do, I tend to be, on average, astoundingly awesome. When it comes to things I think I should probably do, I tend to be, on average, an apathetic amnesiac. I will eventually forget, or "forget", and that will empower me to make forgetting a repeat occurrence, then a habit, a routine, and finally just another addition to my list of "working projects". I picked some tough things to make happen before the end of the world.
I am anxious about the gym I joined and what that all means. Yes! That actually happened! I joined the great purple monster masquerading as the gym for the little guy. It is in all fairness a clever set up with a lot of good ideas and equipment that make workouts easy. Though the illusion that it's a "no judgement average joe" zone is immediately shattered by the large tanning machines, the steel plated walls, giant wall mirror, the remarkably buff clientele, and the giant signs everywhere trying to tell you "we're for everyone". Still the good outlifts the bad and at $99 for the year? They even have little candy bowls that are always full how can you say no?
But back to the point. This means I actually have to go to the gym and overcome excuses. This means I actually have to work out. This also brings up my busted up shoulder, which is the longest standing injury I remember (which isn't saying much). It's getting better all the time, but the fact that I still notice it is improving provides me with, you guessed it, anxiety.
Look, I know what I am. I am a descendant of the greatest worrier of all time. She was the anti-Chanticleer. Instead of singing, she had to worry the sun up (yes I just compared my grandmother to the animated rooster from Rock-A-Doodle. I'm sure she is so proud). So it's in my blood. I mean, I'm anxious about finishing this massive, pretentious, brain dump of a post. But I'm also anxious about coming off too pretentious, too short, and not getting everything out of my head.
Now this would be the time and place where I make the optimistic reveal and point out that anxiety has a secondary definition about being excited for something. I would wax poetic on the great advantage self-awareness provides me. I would identify key points where I have pushed through my worries and found a way to work past the nights of insomnia by dwelling on my achievements instead of my regrets. That would be the easiest thing to do, and maybe it is what I should do. There is a lot of truth in my thinly veiled sarcasm.
But the other truth is this blahblahblog took me 4 days of pondering to finish. That's partly due to crossing #4 off my list and joining a gym, partly because of some long days, partly because it was already going to be very close to breaking Resolution #5 (keep it shorter you jerk), and partly because I was so anxious.
peace be with you
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