the panic alarm

I found this in the restroom at a theatre recently and had a hard time not pulling it off the wall and carrying it around with me, you know, just in case. I'm not really a panicker, but it seemed like a good idea. You never know when the tables might turn and a good old-fashioned panic might set in. In general, (as long as there's no barf) I'm cool-headed, strong, independent, confident, you name it, I am it (if "it" in this instance doesn't equal "panicky").

But, to be honest, things seem to have changed a bit recently.

Maybe it's because I still haven't decided what to do with my life, and it's been months now that I've been examining it.* Maybe it's because it's almost my 32nd birthday and I feel like a fourteen year old. Maybe it's because I've met someone who seems to care a great deal about me.** Maybe it's because I'm constantly afraid of losing my job, even though I have no indication that would even be a possibility.*** Maybe it's because I feel lost, confused, unsheltered and numb. Maybe it's because my peers all seem to be married, and not just married, but happily married. Maybe it's because my sister owns a second house and I still rent a lopsided one bedroom.**** Maybe it's because it's almost December, and December kicks me in the groin every year, even though my birthday and Christmas are two of the best holidays ever.

* "Now with 50% more ambiguity!"

** Eek! Run for the hills!

*** A communal knocking on wood now, if you will.

**** in which a marble placed on the living room floor would roll through the office, the bedroom and the kitchen before lodging itself in the bathroom

If I could, I'd like to move to the other side of that alarm. Just nestle down at the Panic Command Center, where the elite members of the Life Service Team solve my life's little problems (or at least make them go away). Where things are warm and soft, and everyone's given a protective spirit tiger to watch over them. (I've always wanted one.) Where I don't have to make any money, break any hearts, buy any houses, or deal with any physical therapists who, after a MONTH of working on the way I walk, tell me that my walk's "no good." (Yeah, I love the chiropractor but the PT can kiss my ass -- more on this later.)

One of the hardest parts about the holidays is that when I'm at home with my parents, I feel like I already am on the other side of the alarm. And it makes going home (to my uneven little home in Brooklyn) all that much harder.

I do it, though. I just sometimes wish I didn't have to.