Losing Composure- How A Palmetto Bug Brought Me Down (aka- The Great Bug Debacle of 2012)

I am a fairly composed person. For the most part, I am calm and collected. I rarely get into a situation where I find that the best reaction is any reaction. I like to down play anything that is happening, rather than getting upset. If you keep those crazy reactions to yourself, you usually don't have to back track and explain yourself. Beyond  keeping myself composed, I am not usually anxious. Getting worked up about something you have no control over doesn't do anyone any good.

On the rare occasion when I do get anxious it is related to disorganization, and I can list, sort and organize my way out of it.

All this being said, I was hit with a level 5 anxiety attack today. I was having difficulty breathing, had a tightness in my chest, and felt like I could fall apart at any moment. What's worse, is that as far as I can tell, said attack was brought on by nothing at all. I spent a perfectly pleasant afternoon with a friend, working on a school related project, followed by a delightful dinner.

As I scrolled through Instagram shortly after, I was suddenly overcome with the feeling that something was wrong. It was something I didn't really know how to process because it is such an abnormal feel for me. I tried walking it off, I tried talking on the phone, I was even able to come home earlier than expected, which I surely thought would mellow me out, rather than hype me up. Unfortunately, none of these things worked.

You know what did work? Having a complete meltdown. (Big shout out to my mom who was on the phone with me when said meltdown was occurring, and who didn't hang up no matter how ridiculous it got). This was not a normal meltdown. Red alert, Chernobyl, full scale meltdown.

After arriving home and kicking off my school appropriate footwear my very floral dress, bare feet, and I sauntered into the bathroom only to be greeted by the most outrageous palmetto bug I have ever seen. The anxiety attack I was experiencing was clearly brought on by my new powers of premonition, which were trying to alert me to the horrific creature that was waiting for me at home.

He was marching around and waving his antennae at me, daring me to do anything about his presence. My first reaction- find a shoe.

As Squiggly was on the counter, not the floor, there was really no way to take my sneaker and smack him without also crunching my jewelry and other various belongings underneath him, because yes, he did have the gall to be prancing his wiry little legs all over my extremely valuable jewels. So, I put the sneakers on. No use in being barefoot when he could at any moment leap to the ground and begin messing with my mind in completely different way.

Obviously, my next instinct was hairspray, my favorite bathroom bug killer.

But I was out.

The next aerosol can I found was Lysol, which actually did the trick a little quicker than hair care products, which I did mentally note for the future. Once the bug, which was clearly the size of a silver dollar, was deceased (on top of the allergy pill I forgot to take this morning), I was posed with the problem of how I could safely dispose of his remains.

Palmetto bugs are basically a cleaner version of a cockroach. They look almost identical, but palmetto bugs don't come out of the garbage, they come out of trees. We all know that those suckers play dead until the exact moment when you are preparing to dispose of them, then they are revived and suddenly are squirming all around the place with new life, the likes of which you have never seen. Since Squiggly was nearly the size of my hand, I had determined there was no way I would be using my hands and any form of paper product to "scoop him up", I went to the kitchen to retrieve a serving spoon, per my mother's suggestion, which I could use to transport Squiggly to his watery grave via the El Toilete Canal.

This is the point where my meltdown began. Even though I knew he was dead, I could not fathom being able to move it. His size, which I am most likely exaggerating, seemed to be growing in his death, and he was now surely the size of a small mouse. Every time I was able to reach the spoon toward him, I immediately retracted my arm and shuddered in fear, sometimes letting out small shrieks. At this time I had to let my mother off the phone because I was not sure I could successfully carry a bug in a spoon, scream in terror and fear, and hold the phone between my ear and shoulder without letting the ball drop somewhere.

In the middle of this, the details as to when are a bit hazy, my roommate came home to find me in the bathroom still wearing my teacher dress- with sneakers, a can of Lysol in one hand, a metal serving spoon in the other.

To be clear, she did not think I was the picture of sanity.

After my 48th failed attempt to pick Squiggly up, I began to show signs that I may not come back from the crazy. My breathing was shallow, my voice was high pitched, and I could not stand still. At this point, the spoon was removed from my hand, the bug was scooped and flushed, and in a matter of 14 seconds Michelle had managed to do the very thing that in nearly 14 minutes I had not been able to accomplish.

Clearly, her ability to keep her composure and not lose her cool enabled her to quickly and effectively handle the situation, which proves my point that losing your composure is rarely the right thing to do. After the big bug had been sent down the drain, I proceeded to lose myself even more and broke into a bit of a cry as I profusely thanked her for saving my life, while she broke into a fit of giggles at my obvious over reaction.

Whether it was the endorphins released during the Great Bug Debacle of 2012, the intense relief I felt after the bug was gone, or the stress released when I cried, the anxiety attack had finally ended.

Now that the bug is gone, my bathroom is thoroughly cleaned (thanks to all that Lysol!), and I feel like I can take a deep breath once more, I would like to maintain my stance on composure. It is necessary and will help you make level headed choices in a situation, even when your roommate has clearly lost her marbles.

Being Lost

Sometimes I forget what's important to me. I think it's something we all do from time to time. It is so easy to get caught up in what's happening immediately in front of you and lose sight of what mattered for so long before that.

I love my job. I love the creativity, I love the challenge, I love making a difference.

But I don't love that I have lost so much of myself. It is a simple excuse to tell yourself that you'll get to it later. I'll have time later. I can do that later. But when you put off what you love, something that makes you uniquely you, you're only sacrificing yourself. But what's worse than being the one to sacrifice yourself, is that you are now depriving the world of your talents and abilities. Think of people you respect, admire, and love. Now think of what would happen if they didn't give their full potential to the word every day. Think of how much beauty would be missing from the world if Shakespeare hadn't written; if da Vinci hadn't painted; if Sinatra hadn't sung? They all had talent. And none of them ignored it.

Last night when I was asked if I had any resolutions or goals for the new year, I struggled to think of any. But I was wrong, I do have one very important goal. To stop being lost. To stop hiding behind excuses and one million reasons why I should put things off. To start being true to the things I love to do that I've stopped doing.

There's always reasons not to. In 2012 I will find reasons to.

A Little Girl's Dream

I wrote this ten years ago today, after the 9/11 attacks. I was 15 and in the 10th grade, and I haven't edited it at all. It is a little less polished than I normally would post, but I wanted to keep the integrity of what I was feeling in the immediate aftermath. I thought this was a good time to share it. May we remember the fallen, honor the heroes and never forget.

"Ever since kindergarten we’ve been told of our country’s greatness. The United States is unstoppable, unbreakable, and unbeatable. No one can penetrate our defenses and get to our hearts, kill our civilians. We are too great to have war declared on us. We are the best. Since I was six year old, I believed that. I was a little girl and America was my hero. But September 11, 2001, changed all that. America became susceptible to the whims of cowardly terrorists.

When I first heard the news I was with my mom. I asked her who would do this to our great, wonderful, hero of a country. She looked at me and I saw something in her eyes not usually there. I don’t know what it was, maybe fear, or the realization that her little girl was scared and she couldn’t do anything about it. She looked away from me without an answer and I knew that this was going to be much worse than I had originally thought.

Circumstances continued to worsen and I couldn’t believe my country was being attacked. It couldn’t be happening. But it was, and we couldn’t fight back because we didn’t know who to fight with. When I saw my dad he had a new look in his eyes too. Unlike my mom though, his eyes were easy to read. He showed anger and frustration. Upon being asked the same question I asked my mom, I received a very different answer.

“I don’t know who did this but they won’t get away with it, and they will go down,” he said. He showed no regret for not knowing what to tell me. Only anger that he had to, and frustration that his little girl might be put through a war.

As I watched the news, I was heartbroken. I thought about all the little girls out there asking their Mommy and Daddy what was happening and why. It was then that I realized I still was that little girl. More than ever I needed my mommy to tell me everything would be all right. But I began thinking of my American Dream. The little girl’s dream I thought would last forever. That dream had been replaced with heartbreak, destruction, and terror. I couldn’t find my dream of America the Hero.

On September 11, 2001, my little girl was forced to grow up, never to come back. She is too haunted by the memory of catastrophe. I always thought that God would give me the strength to forgive anyone. But now, that dream is shattered too. I don’t know if I can ever truly forgive the people who took my little girl from me."

Devastating Impact

On my way home today I heard a report about the impending landfall of Hurricane Irene. The quote that really stuck out for me was that Irene was scheduled to make landfall on the Northeast coast with "devastating impact."

Devastate- to lay waste, render desolate, to overwhelm

Impact- the striking of one thing against another, forceful contact, collision

Being the Florida girl I am, I cannot count the times when I was threatened with a similar "devastating impact". In fact, one of my earliest memories is of playing in the puddles left behind by the outer bands of Hurricane Andrew. To me, "devastating impact" is almost a joke. A threat that is made but never followed through on; an excuse to take the day off; a shattering instant for some much to close.

I have been desensitized to hurricanes, because really- they have never been real, they've always only been a concept.

Throughout all my hurricane memories one thing is consistent: I was not afraid. In fact, much like that first memory of Hurricane Andrew, I can remember playing in the rain through Hurricanes Jeanne, Dennis, Ivan, Georges.. The list goes on and on.

Even though the orange and red cone was laying directly over my state, my city, my HOME, I was never scared or worried a storm would hit. Though I hate to admit it, I might even say I wanted one to hit. I don't know what would have caused me to feel this way, or really even that I understood what I was feeling. The idea of that devastating impact was so close, I think I just wanted to feel it for myself.

In 2004, Hurricane Charley made landfall twenty-seven miles from my house. We watched the weather channel as the projected path, just moments from being true, forecasted that the category 4 storm was going to hit us. We watched as the storm jutted into the harbor. We watched as we were spared by centimeters on that little green map, all the while thanking God for protecting us, and inadvertently being grateful for the catastrophe that was effecting others.

Those "others" who had once been people who I almost connected with were suddenly people I knew. People I worked with and saw on an almost daily basis were thoroughly destroyed by something that I nearly wished on myself; on my friends and on my family. Devastating Impact was no longer a concept; it was a real and true force, something I had experienced.

I drove around and saw the damage, awestruck by the power of the storm. I volunteered and handed out supplies to victims, saddened for their loss and moved by their courage. I beat myself up, horrified that I could have, even at my young and inexperienced age, wished for something like that to happen to me.

2004 was a terrifying year to be a Floridian as four major storms affected the state. I spent that fall wondering how I would ever be able to reconcile my emotions with my past thoughts; sure that I was a terrible person, and wondering if somehow I was responsible. But with time (and age) we grow and mature. We begin to see things more clearly, to understand them better. I was able to see my curiosity about something so deeply connected to my life was not the same as wishing it on myself or others. I began to reconcile those images of splashing puddles and splintered houses, finally able to fall back into a reverent respect for Mother Nature's power, balanced with a dose of fear and a dash of unconcern.

As Hurricane Irene prepares to make her devastating impact on the United States, as our country once again prepares to have part of it's shores battered and bruised by wind and rain, I am as always reminded of my yellow raincoat and the way the rain drops bounced off of it as I hopped around in the drizzle. But the haunting image of the snapped tree trunks hasn't escaped me either.

As the Northeast coast begins to prepare for the arrival of Irene my thoughts and prayers are with them.

Rejection

It's a difficult word to swallow, but one we all have to deal with from time to time.

And there's several different kinds.

There's romantic rejection- when you get dumped or get turned down. We dread this because it's embarrassing; humiliating even. In a relationship you are at your most vulnerable, when you let your guard down completely, put your trust in someone else and to have them break that trust is gut wrenching. It is probably the most lingering of the rejections, stinging long after the blow is delivered, fading only enough to simmer below the surface and creep up again when you are least expecting it.

There's rejection from family- when your loved ones disapprove of choices you've made. You feel judged, sometimes even persecuted as people who are supposed to love you unconditionally sit silently by and cast sneers and scowls at you. The worst part about this rejection is that these people are a part of you forever. And even after the resolution has been reached, and the conflict has been "resolved" you still feel it. You feel it any time they cast a sideways glance your way or the chatter stops when you come in a room. Because even though they're your family, you'll always remember the ill things they've said about you.

Rejection from friends- to be cast out of a group. This doesn't happen as often when you're off the playground, but we still all have the underlying tendencies to reject, to inflict hurt, well into our adult years. I see it all the time at recess- "I hate you." "I don't want to be your friend anymore." "You can't play with me." "You can't play with us because you have ugly shoes." Kids can be mean, vindictive, and downright hateful. And most of the time, it's the heat of the moment, when they are feeling slighted, or put down themselves it helps to make another person feel worse. But the thing about being a kid is you're resilient. They bounce back and most of the time are playing with the very child that shouted angrily at them the next day. As adults, we don't have the luxury of brushing our mistakes off on being a kid. We know better than to say mean and hateful things. And sometimes this is enough to make us bite our tongues, to hold it in. But not always. And because of that, we will always have the fear of being rejected by our friends, by those people we choose to put close to us. Because we know we may falter and reject, we worry someone may do it to us.

Professional rejection- when you are turned down for a job, fired, told you aren't good enough. This is the whole reason I wrote this post. Because recently I have experienced professional rejection. I have submitted my novel to a contest and sent two query letters and was rejected by all three. Did it sting? Of course. Was I happy? Not exactly. But was it a step? Sure. I have now started "shopping" my manuscript. Of course, 2 literary agents and 1 contest are not nearly enough of a step to imply that I have been making a diligent effort to get my book sold. But, writing queries doesn't pay the bills, so unfortunately I have to prioritize at this point. But it doesn't change the fact that people read my work and rejected me. But this is because there is something better waiting. Those weren't the right options for me, because if they were- it would have worked out. In life, we land exactly where we are supposed to. We have to know that God has a plan, and that we are put where we belong when the time is right, and not a moment before. Professional rejection is a blow, a swift kick right where it hurts. When you think you're right for something and someone tells you you're not.

But the beauty of all rejection is that it helps us grow. We can take the hurt and find purpose. We can learn. We can remember our pain next time we feel the urge to reject another. We can become more compassionate and empathetic human beings. And at the end of the day, shouldn't that be everyone's goal?

Something Borrowed- What it really means to have a sister

Every now and then we've all had to be reminded to share. But no one as much as two sisters.

It went from toys, to clothes, to shoes, to makeup, but as a sister with a sister you have always had to share. Everything.

I can remember being so angry to come home and find that something had been taken with out permission. Seeing it on the floor of her room, not being able to find it when you want it, or, even worse, seeing her in the throes of using it! More than anything you wanted her to stay out of your stuff.There were times when it felt like nothing was sacred, like nothing was really just YOURS. Some days it didn't feel like sharing, it felt like stealing. And such blatant thievery should be punished, shouldn't it? But mom's response was always just a sigh and a shrug with a reminder that she was your sister and to "try to get along better."

As you get older, and you move out and grow apart, you begin to learn that all that stealing wasn't really all that bad.. After all, you took stuff from her too, right? In recent years I began to remember that stealing as less of a punishable offense and began to see it for exactly what it was: sister sharing.

Sharing between sisters is different because it never ends. I have gone to my sister's house and borrowed her clothes, she has come back home and borrowed my clothes. And moreover, we still didn't ask each other.

Now that my sister and I are both co-habitating that same place I have found that her tendencies to help herself to whatever she likes in my closet has not changed. I find her wearing my clothes... often... but it doesn't upset me now like it used to. Possibly because I know that I borrow her makeup and never ask for that either, but more likely it's because I have realized the value of having a sister. Because over and over she has proven to be the one person who is always going to be there for me.

And really, what's a dress or a little eyeshadow between sisters?

Wednesday

Thought I would go ahead and share a short story I wrote for a USF class. Hope you enjoy!

"Buzz!-Buzz!-Buzz!-Buzz! The angry sound of my alarm clock was suddenly permeating my inactive brain. I struggled to push my mind through the fog between sleep and consciousness. Fighting the urge to slip back into the dream world I had created I began to sift through the thoughts in my head, trying to determine what day it was, hoping against all hope that it was Saturday and the irate shouts still blaring from my alarm clock were somehow a mistake. One word came into focus- a sense of dread looming over me as I slowly read the word: Wednesday. Realizing that I was unable to put off the inevitable any longer and finally reaching my breaking point with the alarm I opened my eyes and settled in on the clock.

The red numbers stared back at me, mocking me even as the number changed. 6:31. I leapt out of bed and frantically began to search for something to wear in the darkness. Nine minutes. I had nine minutes to get dressed and ready to go. Nine minutes to wash my face and brush my teeth. Nine minutes to tame my hair and apply my makeup. Nine minutes. Fumbling with my belt buckle I turned back to the glaring red numbers wondering how I could have listened to that pulsing buzz for forty five minutes before finally succumbing to the waking world. 6:34. Three minutes? It had taken me three minutes to settle on jeans and a shirt whose color I was still unsure of?

Tripping over my sneakers I made my way to the bathroom and winced as I flipped on the harsh lights, simultaneously cursing their brightness and thanking them for the jolt they gave my system. While I brushed my teeth one thought repeated through my racing mind. Six minutes, six minutes, six minutes. Even as I said six minutes I knew it was no longer true. I knew I was down to five, possibly even four minutes. I ran a brush through my hair and resigned myself to the idea that eyeliner and mascara would be enough makeup for the day. I began the process of tying my wavy hair into a ponytail as I walked back into the bedroom, my eyes immediately finding those haunting red numbers.

6:42. I began to race around the room gathering my books, car keys and cell phone knowing I was past the point of being out of time. I carelessly shoved my belongings into the bag on the counter, my eyes scanning the kitchen in the hopes that my mom had somehow seen this coming and packed my lunch for me. Having found no brown bag my eyes settled on the green numbers glowing from the microwave. 6:45. How could this have happened? I opened the fridge and grabbed the chocolate breakfast drink knowing that my only chance of eating lunch was firmly attached to the five dollar bill I had been hording in my wallet. On my way out the door I glanced at the green 6:47 thinking that seven minutes can’t be that bad. It can’t mean the difference between on time and late.

I drove to the first of my freeloading friends houses to pick him up for school. Pulling into the driveway I gave a light tap on my horn before resting my eyes on the gleaming 6:52, comforting myself with the thought that the five minute drive had indeed only taken five minutes. Absentmindedly I picked up my can of breakfast and gave it a quick shake before opening it up. Hurriedly I put it in the cupholder so I could make room in the front seat for David. After three precious minutes passed on the clock my irritation level began to rise. He had already had my seven minutes, he really needed three more? In an effort to release some tension I picked up the breakfast drink and gave it a hard and fast shake. But wait- didn’t I…

My question didn’t even have time to fully form in my mind before the chocolate liquid splished and sploshed and splattered all over what I had now identified as a pink shirt. Lost in a cloud of fury I began to search the glove box for old napkins I had saved. Mopping up the chocolate mess I saw the dark stains settle on my clothes and I began to realize the theme of the day. It was 6:59 and Wednesday was clearly playing a cruel joke on me.

The passenger door swung open and my apologetic friend gave me a sheepish smile as I tried to take some deep cleansing breaths. Furiously I drove to my second friend’s house while David tried to make small talk but was instead met with my cold stare. I gravely explained the events of my short morning to him culminating with the news that we were now running fourteen minutes late. I turned off the main road on to the side street that led to Jenn’s house, our last stop before heading to school. Still reeling from the chocolate incident I glanced down and looked at the brown speckles covering my jeans. When I looked up terror filled my heart. Staring back at me from the road was a tiny pair of beady black eyes. His bushy tail bobbed and his front paws rustled in front of his mouth. I tried to swerve but it was too late.

The ba-bump that came from my tires as I ran over the little squirrel echoed in my heart while the guilt and grief was sweeping over me. I pulled into the driveway and put my head in my hands as my bubbly friend piled into the backseat. Making my way back to the main road I made a rookie mistake. I took the same route back that we had just come, instead of the shorter one, to make sure the squirrel, who my mind had named Charlie and convinced me that he was out gathering breakfast for his squirrel wife and his three little squirrel babies, was really dead.

He was. My eyes found the flattened squirrel on the road and I began to get an even sicker feeling in my gut. I remained quiet on the remainder of the drive listening to bits of conversation between my friends and thinking about Charlie’s hungry squirrel babies, Mabel, Carlos and Percy.

At 7:15 we pulled into the community center where I had to park my car- of course sophomores could not park in one of the three parking lots on campus. There were ten minutes left before the bell rang. Only ten minutes to walk from the community center, visit my locker and cross the sprawling campus to get to first period on time. As we sprinted toward the school I loathed my two friends who had English first period- the first building as you enter the school grounds. Their heads disappeared into the 700 building while I was making my third attempt to get my locker open. I blindly pulled my books for my first two classes and began to once again sprint as I headed to the math building.

The chimes of the first period bell began to sound as I closed in on the door. Grateful to have made it almost on time I sunk into my seat hoping for one of Mr. B’s easy review days. The quiet chatter of my neighbors alerted me that something was off. I kept hearing words like “studied”, “conic sections” and -–gulp-- “test”. My eyes fell on the weekly schedule and those four letters may as well have been in flashing neon lights.

I pondered the consequences of making a run for it but Mr. B had already begun to hand out the three page exam which I was sure to do poorly on. Armed with my graphing calculator and my number two pencil I set to work feverishly calculating and surmising, hoping that somehow I would remember the correct formulas.

I handed in my eraser worn paper and slowly made the trek to psychology. Surely my favorite teacher this semester would have all kinds of fun events lined up to enlighten me as to the human psyche. As he requested our homework from the night before I flipped open my pink binder and shuffled through the papers trying to locate the worksheet in question. But words like “cellular division”, “photosynthesis” and “single cell organism” kept flashing before my eyes. I slammed the binder shut and looked at its innocent pink cover. “Pink for biology,” my calm and logical brain told me, “you need the blue one for psychology.” It was not the ten points I was going to lose on the homework assignment that were upsetting me. No, it was Wednesday and all of its harsh practical jokes that I was upset about. As I silently sat through the discussion I pleaded with God to give me the strength I needed to finish out this day to end all days.

I meandered slowly to biology knowing I wouldn’t need to stop at my locker since I had already mistakenly taken my supplies with me for class. I settled in for a long boring lecture but was pleasantly surprised when I found out we were working on identification instead. I smiled, thankful that my luck finally seemed to be turning around. My lab partner and I began the tedious task of sorting through the twenty five types of fish. The boldfaced words stared up at me from the word bank. I slowly read and reread the word third from the bottom in the last column.

The letters came together forming the word “squirrelfish” bringing the memories of the morning whooshing back into the forefront of my mind. Suddenly I was back in the woods with Charlie’s hungry family and the guilt revisited me all over again. Halfheartedly I finished the worksheet, saving Charlie’s aquatic relative for last, longing for the release lunch would soon bring.

I roamed through the cafeteria already nostalgic for the five dollars which would soon be missing from my wallet. Settling in at the picnic table I ate my chicken sandwich, resenting every bite for stealing the last remnants of my birthday money. I thought that the best plan of action was to pack up early and make my way to my last class of the day. I slid my water bottle off the edge of the table knocking into something on my way. My eyes darted to the table to see what I had undoubtedly knocked over. When I saw that little yellow cup tilted on its side I knew that only one thing could have been inside it. I looked downward seeing the blue slush, already feeling the sticky residue it would leave on my foot. Wednesday had struck again. The bitter chicken sandwich and the blue icy had not given me the time I had hoped to have to decompress and regroup.

In a trance I made my way across campus. I could visualize the imaginary black rain cloud hovering over my head, threatening to erupt and drench me at any moment. I passed the threshold into my creative writing class and instantly I could see the black rain cloud that was ruining Mrs. Stevenson’s Wednesday. When we had our one on one conference about my latest short story I could feel the full force of her bad day land squarely on me. My grammar was imperfect, my details lacking detail, and my characters unbelievable. If I had been having a better day I probably would have responded better. Instead of having a mature reaction I childishly pushed my chair back from her desk and felt the hot tears streaming down my face. Back at my desk I sat quietly with tears still dripping off my cheeks, ignoring the inquiries from my concerned classmates. I packed up my bag and sat in a silent protest, my inner two year old giving Mrs. Stevenson a steely eyed glare whenever she dared to look at me.

I stalked from the campus, thankful that the school day had finally come to an end. I drove to the doctor's office I worked at thinking that the worst of the day should be behind me. I walked into the back entrance of the office and could tell it had been the same kind of Wednesday there. Dr. J had been running behind and it had caused the mostly geriatric clientele to become cranky and cantankerous. I spent the afternoon finding the charts for the next day’s appointments doing my best to avoid the grouchy patients. When I finished collecting the brown file folders I stacked them in time order and began to put them under the counter at the front desk. Crawling backward slowly I began to stand up realizing too late that I wasn’t far enough out from underneath. My head banged on the hard undersurface and I heard a loud crack, immediately falling onto my knees again. I continued my journey from under the counter but I was too dizzy to stand up. My concerned coworkers flitted around me offering me water and a place to sit as I got my bearings back. The rest of my work day passed in a blur as I was relegated to answering the incessantly ringing phones.

The last stop of this horrible Wednesday was at my tap class. I hustled into dressing room and began the process of changing into my dance clothes. From my big black bag I removed my blue leotard and black pants. I dug out the thick white socks I had packed so that I wouldn’t get blisters from the shoes rubbing on my heels. I began sifting through the bag of shoes, looking for those silver taps that distinguished them from the others.

Frantically I tossed aside ballet slippers, hip hop sneakers, and toe shoes. I sifted through three pairs of jazz shoes and reached the bottom of the bag. I realized that there were no tap shoes in the abyss and immediately looked for the obvious solution. If you forget your jazz shoes, you wear your ballet shoes. If you forget your hip hop shoes, you wear your jazz shoes. But tap shoes have no obvious solution. Unless you are also a clogger. I am not a clogger. I pulled the thick socks over my feet and walked down the endless hallway to the studio door.

From the doorway I looked at the slick, shiny hardwood floor and instantly knew that it would be slippery in my white socks. I spent the next hour slipping and sliding across the hardwood, trying unsuccessfully to manage new steps and combinations. At the end of the hour I fled the room that I usually had to force myself to leave. Driving home was almost like a dream to me. I went through the motions without really registering what I was doing. Looking to my right I saw my street pass as my car continued to zoom forward. Making the u-turn in disbelief I recounted the day’s events in my mind, ending in what seemed to be the most unlikely of all of the events. Wednesday had me so distracted with all of its hijinks that I had passed by the road I turn down at the end of every day.

The frustration that had been brewing inside of me finally forced its way to the surface. I heard the scream before I realized that it was coming from me. I pulled into my driveway feeling battered and beaten. Leaving all my bags in the car I approached the front door of my house, looked to the sky and said, “You win Wednesday, you win. But tell Thursday to look out- I am ready for a fight.”

PS: This is a true story from a particularly tough day in my sophomore year in high school. Our assignment was to take an inanimate object and give it life. I chose Wednesday as my "object" and tried to write a story of a day that I will surely always remember. Though I do not know for sure that it was a Wednesday, that detail has seemed to escape me ; )