Skin Picker

Sometimes, I fantasize about having foot-tapping anxiety. I’m not sure of what the technical term is, but close your eyes and let me paint you a picture: a wide-eyed, female protagonist sitting cross-legged in front of her vanity, one Keds-clad foot wiggling wildly in place. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Her cheeks are splayed with freckles that she claims to hate, but has recently started to grow fond of. She’s debating on going to prom with the popular jock with the nice hair that everyone has a crush despite the fact that he’s kind of a dick, or her best guy friend who has been hopelessly in love with her since kindergarten. Her best girl friends, lying face-forward on her bed with their ankles kicked back and crossed, tell her to follow her heart. The correct answer is always the best guy friend, but she doesn’t know that. It’ll take her the painful duration of the movie to stumble, fumble, and eventually come crashing into that guy friend’s arms after hurting him unnecessarily by forgetting he was there. I can relate to feeling forgotten so I’m in no rush to mimic that sentiment, but I want her anxiety: it is controlled and non-threatening. Her friends will remind her to calm down and she will, squeezing their hands for comfort as they turn to gossip over a carton of Chunky Monkey.

The first time I have a panic attack, I am in tenth grade and overwhelmed by a Geometry test the next day. There is nothing manageable about…