This is what I meant to write yesterday:

I don’t know why this happens. We go someplace like Eastern Market, with booths, crafts, food, produce, flowers and other wares for sale taking up a block or two of a city street. The arts look nice, the food looks fresh, the vendors are eager to make an exchange. But I hyperventilate.

Going to the Market seemed like a good idea yesterday morning. It sounded like fun. James had been there before and couldn’t speak highly enough about it. So, I figured, why not go, see what the big deal is. So we went. And it was fine. But I was tired and worried about the paper (that I’m not working on right now, either). Maybe that was why.

Maybe I’m just a freak. James handed me ten bucks and told me to pick out some vegetables to go with the tuna steak he was about to buy for dinner. I got to the vegetable stand and wanted to cry. I just felt so overwhelmed. And what only made me feel worse was that I realized inside my head that I was being stupid and ridiculous. What the hell was I afraid of? Buying potatoes from a smiling stranger in a t-shirt who wants nothing more than to sell me potatoes? But I couldn’t buy potatoes. So I joined James, returned his money, and said lamely, “I didn’t know what to get.”

There’s something seriously wrong with me sometimes. I wish I knew how to fix it.


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