Wrangler Dani

So, I wrote a little essay for a little magazine contest. I’ve never done this before, so I was, of course, neurotically nervous. I slaved over it, perfected it, cried way too much about it, and then realized it was 250 words too long for the guidelines. So I chopped and cut and perfected some more.

During this painful process, Adam called me one afternoon to just say hello and see what was up with his crazy wife.

“Hi,” I sniffle.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”My ever-caring husband asks, obviously worried – it’s not typical, when he calls his usually peppy wife on a warm summer afternoon that she would be sobbing into her Diet Coke in a darkened room.

“I… I just…” I falter.

“It’s OK, babe, you can tell me,” he says in his best Consoling Husband voice.

“I’m just crying over a horse I sold eight years ago,” I moan, weeping afresh and feeling lame to the max.

“Awwwww….” He’s laughing. He’s totally laughing.

All that to say, yes, the essay is about my mare Melody, whom I sold eight years ago and recently bawled over for about an hour. You can laugh. It’s OK.

But, my story is not over, as I have yet another vignette of my neurosis to bestow upon you. “Too Kind” has often been used to describe this blog.

I couldn’t stand the thought of merely e-mailing this precious essay into a contest that I’m sure has received eleventy-billion superior works. Oh no. Good ol’ fashioned Pony Express is the only way for my works of genius to roll. So I betook (like how I threw that in there again? Just for you, babe.) myself to the place of one thousand lines and only one take-a-number machine, the ever-efficient model of productivity and charm, where prices are low and smiles are abundant, where soon you can also get a flu vaccine and a mammogram for free – The Post Office.

I stood in line and got itchy and nervous and my palms sweated so much that I had to put my little essay envelope down lest I tarnish it and they reject me for dirty fingerprints. When I finally got called to the counter, I asked nervously if I could register my package. The Post Office guy looked at me and said, not unkindly, that I probably didn’t need to do that. He mentioned that I could get delivery confirmation, for another lotsa dollars. Then he looked me up and down, with my nervous face and sweaty hands, and said casually, “If you send it first-class, it costs a dollar and it will be there in three days, tops.”

“It’ll get there?” I moaned pathetically (remind me again why I have to humiliate myself in public places, and then why I feel the need to tell all of you and exploit my own pain? Is there an app for this?)

“Yes.” Sympathy was gone. Annoyance was back.

“Mmmkay.” I forked over my four quarters ‘cuz I’m sassy like that and steal play-money off of Adam’s dresser.

I walked back out to my car, got in and squealed loudly for several minutes, followed by giggling and oh-my-gosh-ing and wondering if I should call someone. I didn’t, luckily, realizing at the last minute just how weird that conversation would be.  “Hi! I just…. MAILED SOMETHING! OMG! What? You don’t understand why THIS IS HUGE?!” But, as soon as one realization has occurred, the next bit of crazy is right on its tail, as Oscar-esque speeches geared towards tiny writing contests began floating through my head.

Then I had another epiphany: I have four months until they even announce a winner. Clearly I need to calm down.