Pins and needles. What’s scarier now more than ever is that I’m so close I can taste it, but the wind can swoop in and knock the ice cream from my cone in a matter of seconds—even mid-bite. (How’s that metaphor for the day after a holiday weekend?)
I’m trying to keep my nerves in check, trying to squelch the anxiety, trying to avoid feeling physically sick. Everyone’s mentioned how together I’ve kept myself through this whole thing. If only they were a nerve cell on my stomach lining, perhaps they’d reconsider. But I have been okay, taking Bret’s advice and acknowleding that it’s out of my hands; though now that it’s come back into my hands and out again after a few tweaks, I feel directly responsible for the result—even if, ultimately, the decision on whether or not a contract’s in the works isn’t mine. So, the anxiety is back in a way that’s slowly becoming bigger than me, and I’m measuring hours in potential emails and phone calls.
(But, even through the madness, every feeling is more meaningful, more real when you can touch it. It’s true.)
M
