Anxiety

Look. It's not about gender politics. It's not fully about journalism. It's an essay thing that popped out one day and now you will read it. OK.

1. But what if the day were bright? What if it were sunny and clear and sharp, and the cars whizzed by and your (my) feet and joints didn’t hurt those first few minutes after you woke, and the birds sang chirpy little tunes – actual tunes – and you hit the traffic lights perfectly, always at a fresh green – every last light – and you (I) didn’t look at your (my) phone excessively, and you (I) (I, I, I) didn’t worry about what people thought, about earning the respect of your peers and your family and your group text and that lady across the office or that dude over there? What if my (your) (but my) to-do list were empty? What if I got to the end of it?

2. But also, okay. What if I weren’t perpetually worried about corrections, about bias, the mobs, the professional news-media haters, the fuck I’m bored with this there are better things to write about.

2. But what if you didn’t second-guess everything? What if the memories of how mortifyingly A Lot you were (I was) in your 20s, how obnoxious in my teens, didn’t stop me in my tracks – literally halt me between cubicles or on the stairs – at least once a day and cause me to physically shake them (the memories) away – to (again literally) rattle a hand at my side or shiver my shoulders? And it caused me (you?) to wonder if anyone saw that – saw you twitch, saw you clench your jaw and jump a little, and do they (the people who saw that) now think that you maybe need some professional help, and hahaha to those smug bastards, because you (I) already have that, and speaking of which…