Shameless Self Promoting Nag

It's not as easy at it sounds. First, you have to believe in yourself. Second, you have to believe that others can be made believers, and third, you have to be a nag.

No one likes a nag, but nags are the movers and the shakers. Eventually movers/shakers become those irritated by the shameless self promoting nags. And those nags become the next movers/shakers.

Full circle.

Shelf the shame, fist pump your inner nag, and chew off each individual finger nail as you anxiously barrel through your conversations with movers and shakers worrying that they think you are a nag.

Front Seat Abyss

Recently, and for the brillionth time, I was driving down a busy street, minding my own business, checking my cell phone for messages while avoiding ramming into the car in front of me, when my cell phone slipped off my leg and down the side of the seat, in between the center console and hell.

It wasn't just that I no longer had access to my lifeline, but that even after I frantically pulled over to locate the world's most important cell phone, I couldn't get to it. I struggled greatly to reach the little sucker by sliding the seat to its forward-most and backward-most position, but no go. It would appear that my phone would spend the rest of its days alone in a dark nook manufactured by Ford.

My first thought was that I deserved it. Not only is it illegal to so much as glance at your cell phone while driving, but it's happened so many times before you'd think I'd tether my phone to my belt like a midwestern mother does her unruly kids. I mean c'mon, you know something is bound to happen so you might as well lock things up. Unable to imagine a cellphoneless world, my heart reached maximum beats per minute. I knew full well that if I abided the law, or wasn't a moron, I'd still have my phone. That if I could just not be a paranoid spaz for one darn minute my car wouldn't have eaten my phone. Alas, I am ruled by self doubt-fueled delusions of grandeur. I think bad things can't happen to me. So when they do, it's the worst.

Along came reason voiced by the unnerving sound of a two-mile long traffic jam my open car door had caused. (Nobody in this city has balls enough to go around.) I decided it was time to "let it go" using the only tools I have at my disposal: anxiety! With fresh pep I leapt into the drivers seat, slammed my car door shut and put the pedal to the metal of my non-sports car. I began to envision a trick where if I got going fast enough, I could depress the brake pedal swiftly which would result in my cell phone's reemergence into my life.

I cut down an alley and hit it. Fast. During my high speed chase against myself, I wondered how many texts I'd missed, how many calls went to voice mail, and who, if anyone, had tweeted me. Just as I reached the cross street I hit the brakes and BAAM! My phone flew under my feet!

Goes to show you that anxiety can lead to heroism. Who knew?

Twenty Minutes of Pure Anxiety

Mastering the art of Foolproof Anxiety is neuroscience.

Start with a common twenty minute mid-day nap. The process of shutting your brain down takes up all twenty minutes. All of them. Every minute. By the time you doze off it's time to get up. And that's the beauty of it. You go down to rest but the entire experience is stressful-- checking your watch to make sure you are up on time only to get up disgruntled that you never truly went down.

Embrace your pillow for it is foolproof.

Windexiety

Enough said.

The Ultimate Game

It's no secret people like to lick. They lap, slurp, suck and love too. We're American, after all. That's why today's post is about ice cream.

You might be thinking that enjoying an ice cream cone is the ultimate relaxation. Perhaps you abhor the notion that an ice cream cone will inevitably be the most anxious part of your sunny Sunday afternoon. Either way, I propose you suspend your traditional notion of this dessert and join me down the ever expanding road to foolproof anxiety by imagining you just paid for your cone and you are walking out of your local ice cream eatery.

You open the door, the sun hits your face, and you take that satisfying first lick of your chosen flavor. Chocolate. Strawberry. Vanilla. It's like the 1950's all over again where purity reigned. As your tongue savors the past you realize the past is catching up to you. And quickly. Before you know it, the ice cream is melting sans regard... along with your emotions. Desperate, you try to lap up each falling drip. The 1960's pass you buy, in earnest. Now it's 1970 and you've realized your regrets-- trying to eat this cone before it eats you. Look down at the atrocity of your life, er, I mean cone, and it's 1980. A half spilled cone, dollars wasted-- survival of the fit.

That ice cream cone, which promised you joy, is now pushing you to a nervous breakdown. How on earth can anyone eat as fast as it melts? Mind you, it's 1990 now, and you have TONS of fillings.

Brain freeze sets in. Flash forward ten more years.

Sticky sugar all over your hand and wrist. A wasted napkin torn to bits by the ice cream onslaught. You turn to your friend, who was smart enough to get a cup instead of a cone, tells you what time it is.

Now you've arrived.

Anxiety.

What Divides Us

It's natural to categorize humanity, and I've done so with remarkable ease. I believe this to be the modern, prominent theory in human division starting... now.

Forget men/women, Gay/straight, old/young, Black/white. This is my proposition--

There are two kinds of people in this world: People with strong, though crooked teeth, and people with perfect, though weak teeth.

The strong and crooked eat sugar off the cane, never floss, don't even know what a dentist does for a living, and live a life of perpetual happiness. Sure their teeth aren't visually perfect, but their minds are. These people really can be somebody.

Then there are those born with perfect teeth. Straight, white, clean. That's me. People often tell me how lucky I am, that's because they don't understand my theory on human categorization. Behind the clean lines and bright smile is a wicked case of cavities, root canals and anxiety. People like me, roughly 50% of the world, can't so much as finger a soft drink without receiving a $2000 dentist bill.

Notice my use of numbers and statistics.

My theory concludes that half of all people in this world are happy-go-lucky, successful over achievers with a less than perfect smile but an inner strength that carries them. The other half are forced to rely on a false sense of self and can't sleep knowing their teeth might crumble into powdery chunks if they bite a cantaloupe with haste. And just so you know, I had to spell check "cantaloupe" because of my teeth.

For your daily dose of anxiety, decide which category you fall into.

Soy Sauce: Anxiety in a Bottle

Try it.

Just try it.

Try to manage pouring the right portion of soy sauce on your meal.

I dare you.

Soy sauce is a mixture sugar and salt. That's pretty much it. Too much and your meal tastes like a tootsie pop ground with saltines. Too little and your meal taste like the actual food you ordered.

I can't monitor my own soy sauce use. I doubt you can either. That's why today's tip of foolproof anxiety is Soy Sauce. Enjoy the salty sweet mistake of your day.