in need of a valium

Last night, I got into the box of wine.

I'd actually had a really good, productive day at work and had kicked ass on my run and I was feeling the best I've felt since Saturday, for sure, before it happened. Before I got so completely and totally turned around and lost driving through Germantown looking for the alumnae association Christmas party that I thought I was going to cry. I can't count how many times I had to turn around. I was just about ready to give up when I finally got my bearings and found the place, but the damage was done. My chest was tight, I was super tense, it was ridiculous. I ate some cheese dip, played Dirty Santa and made a beeline for the door. Got myself home, got into the wine.

I spent the better part of those three glasses of blush on the phone with my friend Harry, who I hadn't talked to, we finally figured out, since OCTOBER. Ridiculous. I told him the most unacceptable part of this, other than missing him terribly of course, is that it actually makes me miss living in New Jersey. Those words don't even make sense, I know. But it happened.

The wine definitely helped, and I slept like a baby. Although I did have really insane dreams and also passed out before I could turn the setting on my heating blanket down, so I woke up in the middle of the night all disoriented and sweating like I was menopausal.

What bothers me is that I can only remember one other time when I felt anxiety the way I felt last night. It was when we spent Christmas away from home back in 2006, and we took Biscuit to stay with a co-worker of my mom's. We went over to her house with Biscuit first to sniff around and get familiar with the place, and when we went into her backyard Biscuit fell into her swimming pool. Her middle-of-the-winter, greened-out, half-full swimming pool. Biscuit, who's never been in water in her life. I freaked. Mom and I both were ready to dive in after her, but luckily instinct kicked in and she paddled for the side. I had so much anxiety after that, I couldn't feel my legs. When we got home I cracked open a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon. (We'll save my tendency to solve anxiety with alcohol for another day. Or never.)

And it occurs to me that I shouldn't have that level of anxiety over getting lost. Yeah, it was rainy and dark, so there were some external factors at work. But three-glasses-of-wine anxiety needs to be saved for near-miss car accidents or other assorted life-and-death situations. Not for driving too far down Farmington.

And really, I know where it's coming from. I still haven't talked to Mr. November, and I predict that this anxiety, though it may wane, is going to continue until I do. Regardless of what happens when we talk -- and I feel like what I did falls pretty securely into the unforgiveable category -- I know I won't be able to shake this feeling until we do.

Blerg.


cheers,
elizabeth