Lately, I have been faced with the terrible prospect that my whole life might get shaken up in a most unsettling manner.

I have been freaking out about this on and off for a while now, most recently in the bathroom while doing my hair. I began to feel sick and shaky, and was on the verge of tears.  I began thinking about how, if things in life get crazy, action must be taken to counteract the negative events. So I might, I realized, end up taking drastic measures to repair my fracturing reality, if it came to be such.

And then, with sudden clarity, it occurred to me that there is no reason for me to wait until things go wrong to get a little crazy, a little reckless, a little desperate. What’s stopping me from taking drastic measures right now?  What’s stopping me from going a little nuts and taking some risks?  It’ll come to this, anyways, I fear, and then I’ll have to scramble even more frantically, so I may as well get a jump on things.

The worst that can happen is that I fail in these pursuits, and that is something I can live with.  So I’m only really at risk of succeeding here.

The only thing standing between me and this attempt at success, I realized was my own reluctance to act desperate. And that would not do.

I looked at myself in the mirror, shook off my almost-tears, and said, “So get desperate, bitch.”