Frankly Speaking

Last night, Russell The Dog escaped. Down the driveway. Across the row of yards. Along the road. In the darkest dark of night on our street-lamp-less street.

I chased him, of course. Barefoot. Pyjama-clad. At full speed. Devoid of a sports bra or anything else that would have made this scene (somewhat) less embarassing.

And when I found Russell The Dog introducing himself to a nice looking guy about our age, a few houses down from ours, I could only think one thing: this guy seems okay, maybe we could be friends.

Making friends at this age is a horribly humbling experience. It’s not like university or college, where you make friends by just basically showing up. It’s not like having kids, when you have an instant connector and something in common. I watched my parents make tons of great friends at our schools and on the sidelines of our sports games. Nope, not us. We’re at that weird, in-between, awkward kinda stage. Too old to be kids. Too young to really be full-fledged grown-ups. Just trying to figure out how to say hello without sounding like we’re a) hitting on you b) weird c) going to break into your house later. Enough said.

Most people don’t realize how shy I actually am. My career hinges on my ability to be outgoing. And in some ways, I am exactly that. But at my core, I am still the girl in the Dorval preschool graduating class of 1987 – too shy to stand up and collect her diploma on the big day. And that’s a hard thing to shake loose.

It doesn’t help that when I’m nervous, I go deaf. Completely deaf. Deaf like I don’t hear people say their name when we’re introduced, which of course, becomes incredibly awkward once you cross that threshold of knowing the person long enough where it’s (understandably) assumed you know their bloody name.

That said, tonight was a big night, boys. Tonight, as usual, I spent the first half of Ken’s basketball game staring lamely at the only other fan, a girl my age who also cheers the guys on every Thursday. Then, just after the second half got under way, I did it. I got up. I walked her direction (hoping she hadn’t noticed me glancing in her direction for the previous 30 minutes). I slowed right in front of her perch on the bleachers. I opened my mouth to say something. And nothing came out. At which point I smiled (she smiled back) and kept walking all the way to the other side of the court. Where I promptly tried to find something to do over there, without looking like I had mistakenly ended up there because I was too chicken to introduce myself.

Gulp.

Alas – here’s the twist. At the end of the game, she came over to my side of the court (where I was still standing, like a kid hugging the wall at a high school dance). So I cracked a joke. I know she laughed because I saw her head and lips move. Naturally, I couldn’t hear what she said next, so I just mumbled “Fine!” and smiled back at her, not knowing in my deaf-dom if that was an appropriate answer or not. Naturally, I missed her name, as I do all new people who don’t hand me a business card immediately after shaking hands. And naturally, by the time Ken ambled over with the girl (who I think is either called Heather, or Rebecca, but can’t really be sure), we had offered them a ride to the Subway station, and found out they’ve just moved here from Australia. Not bad.

Things aren’t always as hard as you think they’re going to be. Then again, they’re not always as easy as you assumed either. This week, my mother told me she believes success is in the trying. I like to think that I already knew that, but sometimes, you need to hear something from another person for it to become real. Either way, she was right.

Tonight I tried. And it was a small victory. But a victory nonetheless.

I worry a lot. If you’re reading this, you already know me, which means you’re already familiar with my worrying. I worry about most things. From little things – like the odd shape of my baby toe., McDonald’s vs. Pizza Pizza. To big things - the end of the world, that sort of thing. But the things I worry the most about are people.

These days, I focus my worrying on my family.  I worry knowing full well that worrying doesn’t really get you anywhere. But I do it just the same, in case this time, I worry hard enough to come up with a solution for whatever particular disaster I’m thinking about.

And this week, I worried myself right onto a roller coaster.

I know what you’re thinking: that doesn’t make any sense. Trust me, as I waited on line for my turn on the Manhattan Express loopy-di-loop adventure, it didn’t make much sense to me either. But something inside me propelled me forward.

As the clink, clink, clink of the car pulling us upward to the starting point echoed out, and my fellow passengers began to squeal, it still wasn’t making sense.

But then I closed my eyes. And I said a little prayer. And I let everything I worry about every minute of the day start to fall (fast and furious) away as the plunge began.

We dipped, and I screamed. We turned, and I screamed. We twisted inside and out, we flipped upside down, we went this way and that way. For three minutes and thirty seconds, I did nothing but scream. I thought of nothing but screaming. I didn’t even breathe, because it’s almost impossible to inhale oxygen when you’re so busy pushing it out. I screamed long and loud and clear and when the whole damn thing came to an end, I stood up and walked away a little bit lighter. A little bit wiser. A little bit closer to okay than I’ve felt in a very long time.

It’s been a few days since I wobbled off the roller coaster. It’s been one day since my holiday officially came to a close. And there are only a few more hours left until I head back into the office. I’m still worrying. It’s who I am. Some days, I’ll worry just a little bit. Other days, I’ll worry more. I’m a better worrier now than I used to be. Most days, I know how to turn it off. When I don’t, I’m going to get back on the closest roller coaster I can find, and scream the shit out of it.

Hell, the way I see it – life has kinks, and there will always be something worth worrying about. So long as I can get myself onto the proverbial roller coaster now and again, I should be just fine.