Fearless

How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...

I had no fear.

Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.

I had no fear.

The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.

Because maybe I had a little fear.

To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."

I had fear, but I had mace.

Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."

For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.

Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.

Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.