And maybe make another trip to WebMD.
But the first step is admitting you have a problem. Or that's what lots of alcoholics and junkies tell me. And they usually give pretty good advice.
I'm just having a problem with the next step in the process. Am I supposed to hunt people down to apologize that my anxiety has ruined them for other people? My eldest son probably wouldn't even understand that. It might even prompt him to make elephant sounds or something. And I won't even say what it'd prompt T9 into. Because it probably has something to do with poop. And I don't go there.
Do I try Yoga? I'm kind of opposed to things that make you sweat with very little visible effort. I mean, stretching oddly shouldn't make you sweat. And if it does, I'm pretty sure your instructor is pumping some noxious gas into the room because he's got a weird fetish or something.
There's meditation, too. But come on. I can't even pee privately. How exactly am I meant to put my fingers into little "O" shapes without my toddler reciting the alphabet or demanding cheerios? Cheerios remind me of my toxic cholesterol levels and the alphabet song has got to be one of the least relaxing songs ever. I mean, have you listened to the lyrics recently? Sinister.
In other news, my professor told me last night that he could essentially get me into a PhD program. For, like, free. The catch is that it's in Cali, baby. I'm pretty stoked at the compliment, but naturally, the implications are anxiety inducing. They follow along these lines, first for my children:
California--->Veggie Burgers-->Hippies-->Pachouli-->Green Living-->Non-Profit Line of Work-->Parents' Elder Ages Spent in Sub-Par Nursing Home
This parallels with my own destiny:
PhD-->Reading Stuff That's Boring-->People Calling Me Doctor Even Though I Can't Even Do CPR-->Utter Confusion and Chaos on Airplanes and Car Accident Sites-->My Eventual Imprisonment For Impersonating an Intelligent Person
And now I've got anxiety about how to end this post. So just walk away quietly, please.