The perils of anticipation

This morning I was out of bed by eight—okay, it is Saturday, and I am retired—and in short order had my hair washed, bed made, clothes changed, ready for the day. All this haste was in anticipation of the late-morning arrival of Colin and his family. But somehow, I had a nagging feeling that they weren’t coming. They were driving from skiing in Colorado home to Tomball, outside Houston and would stop for a brief visit.

Sure enough, he called. He was coughing and has red eyes (probably allergies) and fourteen-year-old Morgan did not feel well. He left it up to me, and I reluctantly told them to skip the visit. I’m pretty much staying in and not taking chances.

So all my anticipation collapsed like a punctured balloon.

Still, that was joyful anticipation. I’ve had a couple of bouts lately with anticipation that was more like dread or, at the least, apprehension. In other words, I can work myself into a snit because I’m anticipating an event. It’s called chronic anxiety.

Much as I loved my recent  weekend in San Antonio, I suffered agonies of anticipation. Would I have to speak in public? How would the book signing go? Would Jordan be able to disinfect everything on the Vonlane bus and in the hotel? Would we be exposed to the novel corona virus? If nothing presents itself, I can dredge up bizarre possibilities to worry about—like bus accidents and hotel fires. Even as those things go through my mind, I know I’m being ridiculous.

Of course, once Jordan, Jacob, and I were on the bus, I was at ease. And in San Antonio, I loved the life was going on as usual (it may not be now), people were crowding the streets, laughing and singing. The neon-lit carriages  paraded through the streets. Jacob said it reminded him of New Orleans. We ate in wonderful restaurants, the meeting went well, my book was a success. The hotel was interesting and comfortable. And as usual, I wondered why I had worried.

But I came home and did it all over again, anticipating the talk I was to give Thursday morning at the Arlington Women’s Club. I invented excuses why I couldn’t go, I rehearsed my talk and convinced myself I would freeze in the middle of it. I was sure I’d talk too fast, too slow, too loud, too soft. In the car, I told Subie if she saw me panic, she should distract me with a question. She asked what question, and I said I didn’t care, just break the spell.

Once I was onstage and into my talk, I actually enjoyed myself. Theladies laughed and clapped and responded. Every once in a while I’d look at Subie, and her grin reassured me. I lost my train of thought for one brief nanosecond but got right back on track. And instead of seeming interminable, my talk seemed short—I was at the end almost before I knew it.

This reaction to speaking is nothing new. I spent many years talking to groups, conferences, workshops, and each time I suffered agonies of anticipation over a speech that went fine. I had a good friend who was a natural, entertaining, off-the-cuff speaker, and when I complained, he always said, “But you do it so well.”

It seems I can’t convince my mind to quit anticipating and accept that the event will go fine. I think I’m doing a bit of that right now with this virus threat. No sense wringing my hands as long as we’re all well and taking precautions.

Yes, I am pretty much cottage-bound, and it’s a strange feeling. Sometimes, unconsciously, I think of myself as ill or fragile and then I have to remind myself that I am perfectly fine—it’s the world around me that’s fragile.

The mind, at least mine, is a strange thing, capable of playing all kinds of tricks on us.