“You’ve been working on this presentation for months.” “No one else in the room knows about this topic better than you.” “You’re a strong, confident woman that is going to kick ass… but, like, in a professional way.”

I stare at myself in the fluorescent light of the office bathroom. I notice I’ve been grabbing the sink so hard I can’t feel my fingertips anymore. Okay. It’s showtime.

“I’m strong. I’m confident. I’m capable. I’m strong. I’m confident. I’m …” Oh god. They’re all looking at me.

My head has that cloudy feeling where it feels like all the insides of my head are clogging all the holes on the outside of my head.

My eyelids are sweating.

Am I going to pass out?

I can’t see anything.

What’s happening? Should I say something? Have I already said something?

My brain is running down my throat. I can’t breathe.

…

I’m staring up at the ceiling, counting the cobwebs stretched across every corner my mom could never reach with the broom.

I can hear my mom. She’s singing along to Whitney Houston in the next room.

I’m laying in the sun, draped across the carpeted floor in a strange little pose shaped like the old orange cat next to me.

I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am now. Laying in this mid-afternoon beam with nowhere to be.

Everything seems so simple from here.

I can hear Jenkins purring next to me, like a little furry engine.

How lucky I am to share in this little creature’s joy.

…

Is the presentation over?

Fuck. I don’t remember a single thing I said.

My ears are sweating now.

Did I even do it? Is it obvious I’m covered in sweat and wish I was dead?

No. They’re smiling. It went well. They’re smiling and clapping and… fuck.

Ken is asking me a question.

I can’t answer a question. I don’t even remember giving the presentation! What is he saying?

My brain is dying a heat death. Soon there will be nothing left.

Am I crying? My eyes are so blurry I can’t see Ken’s face anymore.

My head feels tight. My throat feels tight. It’s like my body’s been Saran wrapped over my insides.

…

Some British narrator is filling up my ears now. Something about the rise of fascism in Italy and dictators and blah blah blah.

It’s rolling out of my dad’s truck speakers, swirling around like a never ending stream of boring little history marbles I didn’t want to collect in 7th grade and I sure as hell don’t want to collect now.

My dad is nodding along with the British narrator. Raising his brow at every twist and turn in the story. As if this didn’t happen a billion boring years ago.

But I sit and listen and nod along with my dad and his boring audiobook.

He got it from the last truck stop.

I rolled my eyes when he excitedly set it on the counter among my Arizona tea and Gardetto’s snack mix and his Diet Pepsi.

But I can’t help but smile at my dad’s love for this British man we met at the truck stop - even if the man sounds like he’s trying to win a competition for the most pretentious sounding man ever to walk the Earth.

My dad takes a sip from his Diet Pepsi and holds out his hand for a bite of my Gardetto’s.

I’m careful to only give him the rye chips

…

I think it’s over now.

I’m walking back to my seat. Ken is looking thoughtful so I must’ve said something intelligent.

Or so unfathomably stupid he’s trying to figure out how I managed to survive this long.

They’re giving me the polite golf clap.

But is it a good golf clap? Does it feel like it has some passion behind it?

It’s probably a bad golf clap. Jeanine definitely looks like her eyes are fighting the urge to roll with more passion than an Olympic gymnast.

No.

She’s making eye contact. She gave me a thumbs up AND a smile!

I think it’s going to be okay.

Fuck. I need a drink and a call to my therapist.