My anxieties are reaching an all-time high lately, I thought as my doctor scolded me for touching my boobies too much.
“Quit squeezing your boobs!” is what she said, actually.
I had scrambled to the doctors after I became convinced that one boob was firmer than the other, thus meaning that a giant tumor was taking over the right side of my body. In fact, I’ve been having muscle issues on my entire right side for months now, and instead of being logical about it (the right side of my body is my mouse hand, and I spend over four to eight consecutive hours on my computer a day), I constantly dwell on the idea that I have side cancer.
I’ll refrain from getting into details on my boob-squeezing obsession, but I will say this: boob-squeezing is a slippery slope. If you think there is something wrong with your boobs and you constantly squeeze your boobs to see if something is wrong, then your boobs are going to hurt, and then you’ll REALLY think something is wrong with them.
Side note: My title and story is not a call for women to stop checking their boobs on a regular basis. PLEASE, check your boobies – just don’t obsessively squeeze and hurt them.
This marathon to the docs also coincided with an alcohol-fueled flight home from New York, where I spent over $30 on airport and airplane booze to help calm my nerves. Either my anxiety is powerful enough to make me constantly sober or the airport bartenders put a thimble of alcohol in their drinks, for I still spent the entire flight home to Austin sweating, rocking and staring blankly at the kind passenger who tried talking me down from my fears. Luckily he was Jewish as well, so he understood where I was coming from.
A lesson about airport alcohol: Chili’s Too is not a good place to get loaded pre-flight. Their $10+ margaritas are not only expensive, but they have the same ingredients as the children’s summer coolers. In fact, Chili’s Too is a place to stay away from period.
I’ve also developed a fun tic where I watch people while they sleep to make sure they’re still breathing.
A part of me wants to desperately ask strangers if they’re carrying Xanax on them and if so, to please hand it over before I begin patting them down. But another part of me knows that life doesn’t get any easier, and that I’ll need to overcome my anxieties one day. The third part of me wants to give up on everything and move to the beach, where I’ll drink non-Chili’s Too margaritas for the rest of my life.
As I turn 30 next week and CONTINUE OBSESSING OVER OUR MORTALITY, I promised myself to develop a non-Xanax-centered regime to help with my anxieties:
1. Do yoga every day.
3. Write about your fears.
4. Talk about your fears with others.
5. Find religion.
6. When you become anxious over the fact that you can neither do yoga or meditate in a way that seems helpful, begin believing that something is physically and mentally wrong with you; go to wine & cheese night at Whole Foods.
7. When writing and talking about your fears only makes you more anxious, invite friends to a bar and resort to discussing your minimal knowledge on light things like Kim Kardashian and soup.
8. When finding religion proves difficult, sit in your house alone with a bottle of vodka and initiate conversations with “God” a.k.a. the tiny spider that found it’s way into the house and is currently sitting on your knee.