Jitters

Dear fear,

You get a bad rep. I know this, not because our friendship endured years of discord before attaining that lofty, official title, but because when you do vex me, I always repent, aware that you're not to blame. You are actually my one faithful motivator, the only friend who resists the urge to sepia-tone my photos, pat me on the back after failures, or nervously giggle at my slip-ups. No, that job is painless and has plenty of applicants. Instead you challenge, goad, stare me down with a torero's frigid gaze.

My throat still dries, my palms ooze, my heart skips random beats. But I no longer agonize in anticipation of my at-bats - a formerly reluctant hand volunteers in steadfast defiance. I want to do this; I want to improve; this is for me.

There was a moment, not long ago, when I smiled at you - I don't know if you caught it. My presentation, unpolished, ill-prepared, and full of gibberish, belied outward calm, deliberation, artificial confidence. A post-class discussion allowed me to confide that "I had no idea what I was talking about." She (sincerely, I hope) admitted complete deception. To some, it's bullshitting, but that, for now, is irrelevant. It's awareness that we don't need vitamin P to deliver. It's hope that practice does eventually bear progress. It's fist-pumping confirmation that no, I'm not always wasting my time. It's glorious personal achievement, but I would be remiss and terribly American to not recognize you as the horse before my cart. Innumerable cliches would water down any advice I could give, and it's not as if I've crossed a finish-line. I just don't want you to rest on your laurels either. Thanks.

Stay scary,

B