I find a great – albeit sick - joy in examining my own neurosis - how they have changed and shifted over the years and even months. This weekend I performed in the KC Fringe Festival in an original ensemble-created piece and as we sweated through the final performance, I realized how so much of what I talked about in the show, so much of what was sourced in the rehearsal process that took place less than two months ago was no longer true.
I talked about being constantly afraid and of my anxiety at being alone. Funny, that these days I am exalting fearlessness and journal entries like the one below seem a little less like me.
6am at LAX
Airports always make me nervous and not for the usual “Oh dear lord, I hope I don’t die,” kind of reasons. Airports are a percolator of self-doubt and insecurity.
Stay with me here.
There is something about all the people and the anonymity of the crowd that allows us to judge one another solely on our outside personas. And it’s not exactly like we are acting our best. It is crowded and chaotic and someone is always invading someone else’s personal bubble and still, we watch each other, coming and going, united in the common goal of trying to get somewhere more appealing than the here and now.
As I watch the floating nebula of strangers, they all just seem so much more put together that I could ever be.
There are women fully dressed to the nines with the make up and the hair - the works, all before I have even had my morning cup dark roast salvation, wishing it could just be injected directly into my blood stream. There are the business women, so serious and focused, the free flowing hippy college coeds that don’t seem at all distressed by the insanely long line at the airport Starbucks, and those adorable, cutesy little things who just throw on a pink baseball cap and ta-da, are ready the face the world.
And of course, there are the couples. Those damn couples. Cute and sporty, trendy and mushy, all of them lovey-dovey, because they know where ever they are going they don’t have to go there alone.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not begrudging any of theses strangers their personal successes or happiness, but as I examine my disheveled figure staring back at me in those god-awful bathroom mirrors, which I am convinced were ripped off some carnival fun house, I can’t help worrying, “What’s wrong with me?” and hoping secretly that maybe someone else is worrying the same thing too.