Tuesday, January 30, 2018
I'm supposed to have lunch with my agent today. I am internally resisting the idea of getting dressed in my publishing best to go into the Flatiron District for lunch with my uber cool, uber thin, uber elegant agent, whom I love, by the way. She's awesome and supportive, and I feel so lucky to be represented by her, but lunch, showing up in person, that's another thing entirely.
It's snowing outside, so there is a chance we might reschedule, because she knows about my gimpy leg and doesn't want me to slip in the snow. But the snow is tapering off, and the streets might be all cleared by lunchtime, so lunch will probably happen. Why am I like this? Why is it so hard to just go places and be myself like normal people?
Is this social anxiety inborn and if not, where did it begin? The thing is, I am only like this in certain contexts, the publishing world of agents and editors being one of them. I keenly feel like I don't fit, which is nonsense. Everyone fits who feels like they belong.
Of course, if I have to, I will show up and do my best impersonation of a socially competent human being. But it takes such energy, even though afterward, I'm often glad that I did it—and even more glad that its over. When I think about it from the outside looking on, it seems supremely silly. And yet the agony I'm going through right now, the churning inside, is real. The feeling of it is real.
I just emailed her suggesting we reschedule. Now I just feel stupid.
Update: Just spoke to her by phone. She was fine. We rescheduled for three weeks from now because she's traveling in the interim. I need to remember these things are never as loaded for the other person who can't hear the cacophony in my head.