ANXIETY HELL

That’s the thing about the restroom in your office: No matter what decision you make, the outcome? Never good. Uh uh. There’s always that one stall, the Goldilocks of stalls ─ ooo, it is so perfect ─ but goddamn it, the lock doesn’t work. Out of the question. Unusable. Erroneous!
Never mind that you’ve worked in the building over a year and it has never been fixed, never been tended to. Oh no. Never will be, either. That stall door will swing open and closed, embarrassing each and every new employee at least once depending on how stupid they are and apt to remember what was behind door number one. Oh, their naked nether region exposed to the entire company, that’s what.
So you saw the VP take the luxurious handi-man spot. And what do you know, the one right next to it (next to HER) is the only other one that either A) does not swing open like a saloon door as soon as you drop trou’ or B) does not have a wide enough door-to-stall-wall gap so that anyone washing their hands and looking up in the mirror sees your nude chonch.
Oh yeah. You know it. You really want to take that stall. It is the perfect stall.
But it is too close.
So what do you do?
Pop a squat just politely far enough away from VP so as not to let her hear each tinkle of that Capri Sun you just sucked down for lunch? Give it a little space…only to look up and BOOM! Make eye contact in the mirror. Only it isn’t even eye contact is it? It is VP eye to your inferior vajayjay contact.
And whether you are recently waxed, sporting a bush the likes of which no one has seen since the debut of “I’m Gone Getcha Sucka,” or doing the old elastic loosening swoop on your granny panties, it is not OK.
Whatever your situation is? It is wrong in this moment.
Oh, it is so wrong and you are so busted.
But here’s the other thing, right? It’s like Hayzeus Christo, you sought gainful employment outside a gdang strip club for a reason. You’re not paying the bills by getting involved in a goddamn oil-doused midget wrestling match in some Podunk backwoods bar in Appalachia.
You’re a professional working woman with a degree from a university that does not spend its so-called education budget advertising its wares with daytime TV commercials. You command respect!
You shouldn’t be hovering over someone else’s pee remnants ─ who the F keeps peeing on this seat every time anyway?! You want to install a camera. Figure who the hell is not housebroken. I know! I feel the same way.
You shouldn’t be in physical and emotional agony, your squat burning your thighs to ashes like the nebulous memory of your dignity.
It’s just like going to the gyno. Hm. Does she think I’m whore because I shaved myself like Michael Phelps before a Subway commercial or does she think I’m a disgusting lazy pig because I’ve got Al Sharton in the wrestling pose commonly referred to as The Leg Guillotine? Yeah. You’re fucked.
And that’s why the only answer is to eliminate the consumption of any beverages.
All. Day. Long.
Oh yeah.
That’s working out great for me.
I’ve got adult acne caused by toxicity build up and dehydration, I practically die eighteen time per hot yoga session, but you know what? Old VP has no idea what’s going on downstairs.
And that, my friends, is the ultimate in Goldilocks stalls.

March 2, 2011
Categories: Anxiety Activators . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment

While waiting in line at Ralph’s last week, something hellacious distracted me from my surreptitious attempts to read The Enquirer’s headlines about Kirsty Alley’s ass cellulite. The checker passed a palm-sized cutout of a shamrock to the philanthropist in front of me, who was now not only making my ice cream melt so she could write her name in calligraphy on a piece of construction paper that would forever immortalize her generous donation to charity, she was also setting me up to look bad.

The thing is, I hate that moment just after I’m asked, “Would you like to donate a dollar to children’s cancer research?” Because even though I know I’ll do it, I know I’ll do it reluctantly and with a frustration I’m incapable of hiding. While my mouth is utilizing every ounce of strength to form the word yes, my brain is screaming, “No. No I wouldn’t, see? Because then I’d have one less dollar to put toward my Ben & Jerry’s versus Godiva versus Haagen Daz taste test research. I only have three pints of premium dessert flavors here! Can’t you see I’m only buying the necessities?! Clearly I do not have a dollar to spare!”

And it’s never even some generic charity, either. It has to be some ridiculous need that you actually have to think about for a second, like Jesus Christ what kind of world are we living in? I just wanted some Chunky Monkey and now I’m all worried about some insane cause, the name of which is as long and painfully drawn out as the patient’s suffering. Would you like to donate a dollar for Blind, Diabetic, Infant Refugees with Spinal Bifida who Need New Prosthetic Arms so they can Swat at the Flies Buzzing around their Sunken Eye Sockets?

AHHHHH!!!! Fine! Fine, of course I would and you can send them my ice cream, too, because now I’ve lost my appetite and it’s not just from thinking about flies landing on malnourished skulls, but from the disgust I feel toward myself for feeling angry that you’ve just burst my delusion bubble where all that mattered in life was celebrity gossip and dark chocolate fudge ribbons.

March 24, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: 4 Comments

I awoke this morning to the pleasant sounds of some small animal dying a claustrophobic death in our wall heater, and the uncharacteristic urge to do something healthy today. Perhaps the frantic clawing noises echoing through the hallway reminded me life is short; then again it was probably just my morbid disposition that did that. In any case, I popped out of bed with the motivation to adopt a wholesome lifestyle and whatever pet wanted so desperately to enter my apartment through such unorthodox means. So after gazing at my new treadmill for a good thirty seconds, I decided focusing on my diet would be the best place to start.

I began by shoving only TWO mini crumb donettes down my dental dam, followed up with just three point five shots of chewable black tar espresso. That’s a point five deduction from my quotidian habit, which may not sound like a lot to you, but as many an Olympic ice dancer knows, a point five deduction can feel like it’s going to kill you.

A prolonged fight ensued between my half and half pouring hand and my will to get fit, leaving me with a cramped arm and the kind of mess you’d expect to see if a cage fighter kicked the shit of a cow in your kitchen. Eventually, my desire to look little-boned won out and I choked down my mug of the good stuff without the aid of a high-calorie mixer. Foregoing my heavy pour of cream allowed me to create a beverage that was both fat free and a handy test that assured me my gag reflex was still fully functioning.

Feeling undercaffeinated and about thirteen donettes short of a full stomach, I could hardly get to work on my To Do list. So I did what I always do when I have a To Do list that needs doing and sought a distraction. Thankfully, the violent thrashing coming from our wall had yet to cease. I decided to call Raul to see if he had any advice on how I might put our new friend out of its misery.

For some inexplicable reason, all of Raul’s suggestions involved me entering into close proximity with the creature, rendering his proposals moot. Had he recommended dynamite, standing in front of the heater and staring at it for long periods of time, or spraying the fire extinguisher through the slats, I’d have happily obliged, but as it was, the call proved ineffectual. I wandered into the bathroom to floss as Raul’s frustration with my refusals to open the heating unit reached a crescendo. Just then, Read More…

March 24, 2010
Categories: Anxiety Activators . . Author: anxietyhell . Comments: Leave a Comment