Be Brave Project, Day 25: Dealing With Dealing.

Labor Day weekend is here, and I feel a bit melancholy and reflective. Outside the milky curtains of of my apartment windows, I can hear the soft sound of cars swooshing by in the rain, of horns half-honked out of habit more than anger, of women clipping by in high heels. Whenever someone comes into my building, a typical NYC walk-up built in 1904, the front door squawks resentfully before easing back into a closed position with a sigh. Ground floor life.

I don't want to move; the hassle, the expense, the finding of the boxes and movers and time. . .and yet, and yet I have not yet sent my lease renewal. I am still waiting to see that damned duplex. Rec'd a call from Rebecca yesterday; they can show it to me next week. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow--this shit might just petty pace me out of a home. But the idea of having a dishwasher and stairs to climb, of laundry in the building and a full-sized bathtub (bubble baths! Oh!)--in addition to saving $300 a month, just keeps me dangling on the line with teeth firmly clamped to the bait.

They're not screwing me around; I just think Rebecca is shy about gaining access to the place for some reason. And if my landlords try to boot me out for being a few days late on the renewal (these landlords being the same people who took 4 months to repair a hole they knocked in my bathroom ceiling last summer), I shall simply say I mailed the renewal at the beginning of the week.

So that's what is making me uncomfortable; I really do not like duplicity. Even in the name--particularly in the name--of taking care of myself, it makes me uncomfortable. I don't like duplicity or uncertainty or negotiations. I don't know when I turned into such a Pollyanna, but it's ruining my sleep and chapping my ass.

Anxiety about the Be Brave Project is also really kicking up. Yesterday I mailed the second out of the three tax returns I missed due to being a lush. Again, I am supposed to get money back; but I feel as if that cannot be the full story. Can you really just do the late taxes and that's it? I spent years feeling terrified about this, and all it took was 1 week, 1 accountant, and a stamp to sort it out? That cannot be.

My Health Insurance card, which I still do find a bit thrilling, is kicking up anxiety as well; I am profoundly mistrustful of the American health system, and convinced that if I actually use the damn thing all sorts of ghastly paperwork will reign down upon me. This, in AA terms, is known as catastrophizing. And, as you can imagine, it's a jolly fun way to live your life.

So, what with the stress of moving/not moving/might get tossed out, dealing with my taxes, health insurance mistrust. . .I find duplicity is seeping into all sorts of odd places. An old friend from Paris called and texted on to invite me to a dinner party in the East Village last night--I was told that attractive men would be there, that the food would be divine. . .

Phhh. That's how I felt. Phhh. First the hassle of getting dressed, which on an average day is far from a thoughtless, casual event for me. Then a hostess gift, two trains downtown, switching at Times Square. Long long walk from Astor Street stop down to Avenue B. "Attractive Men" always sound stressful and a bit high-maintenance, and as for food? Please. I have my pesto, I have Cadbury's Fruit and Nut bars. Unbeatable.

So I lied: I said I had to deal with my taxes.

And I sat on my sofa all night, quietly focusing on not freaking out about it all, the Be Brave Project and moving/not moving, sobriety and the stockmarket, grave family worries that kicked up this summer and the solace of the beginnings of financial acumen. I suppose you could say I was dealing with dealing with my taxes.

And that's attractive enough for me.