Stress is a sneaky villain. It builds and builds, and then, bam, you find yourself sobbing in the minivan after your daughter’s dance competition, barely able to navigate roundabouts through the torrent of tears and snot. I don’t cry often, but when I do, it ain’t pretty. Here’s the skinny.
I’d been riding the anxiety bus all week. Nothing major, just a bunch of little annoyances that were throwing off my sleep and continually pressing the angst button. My husband, Doo, and I had argued; our younger son was denied a college transfer request and now may not graduate on time; our high school senior received a rejection from her dream university; and I’d decided to teach something completely new for my annual administrator’s observation.
I actually thought I was fine when Saturday rolled around. Doo and I had talked, the aforementioned kids were rallying, and my lesson went off without a hitch. I was no longer consciously worrying about anything, and the dance competition went relatively well.
But I made it only a few minutes into the ride home before the pent-up emotions burst forth. I quickly went from half-heartedly criticizing the obviously talent-blind judges to bawling about my dad who passed in 2020, our cat who died last May and stupid Indiana politicians. Of course, my breakdown wasn’t about any of those things, but rather a culmination of a psychologically straining week. And part of me is saying, “It’s OK. It’s just stress. Let it go,” while another part is like, “You’re a hot mess. Perfect column fodder!”
So, yeah, stress is sneaky but also occasionally entertaining. You’re welcome.