If pacing were an Olympic sport, I would own the gold medal. I can wear down the floorboards with the best of them: a neurotic Jewish grandmother, a middle-aged single woman clutching a pregnancy test bearing a plus sign, an obsessive-compulsive grinding his jaw wondering if he left the oven turned on. Sometimes I have something specific to fret over; more often, not.
I stride between rooms with a glass of wine in my hand, twisting a strand of hair around my fingers, or brow furrowed and tapping my chin with my index finger.With every step I am solving not just one, but a multitude of problems, and the more I walk the more organized my thoughts become. Finally I determine the biggest worry, the one that needs my attention the most, and then I walk some more, the sound of my footsteps synchronized with the beating of my heart.
A wooden floor is preferable for this exercise, each thump of my foot satisfying proof that I am doing my job, my job of worrying and hand-wringing – I’m working here, dammit! Of carpeting, berber is preferable as it’s low pile allows me to maintain my fast pace even if it is a little rough on the balls of my feet. Standard-issue apartment carpeting is wretched, but being a pro, I find a way to make it work. Tile or linoleum is alright but I have learned the hard way that socks must be removed. I can even pace outdoors, in a light rainfall, wearing heels but don’t get me started on that one.
I’ll be straight with you: I have an easy life. I have no genetic maladies, no family tragedies or tales of grave suffering. Any trouble I get into is largely of my own doing, and perhaps this is what makes pacing my cardio activity of choice. It is toiling, it is trifling and so are my concerns. I know no better, but I should, and the “should”s are what fucking kill me. The “should”s and the ”should not”s are the bread and butter of any good worrier. Regret runs through our veins, we eat lament for breakfast (with half a xanax.) And then we will whip your ass in a pacing competition.
Today was actually pretty great. I was able to sleep in, and woke to the sound of rain. I found a good movie on television and snuggled in. I have money in the bank, and that is usually my number one complaint. My bills are paid, and I am so blessed in every area of my life. It was the lack of worry that had me pacing: when’s the next disaster going to strike? What have I overlooked? I’m missing something, there’s something wrong here, isn’t there? I wracked my brain, pivoting on the ball of my foot at each end of the room. What’s wrong, what’s wrong?
Nothing is wrong. Still, I pace.
