A Bad Case of the Jitters

This morning, like every morning in South Freeport, all is quiet. You can hear the muffled toots of the early train from Boston passing through like it does twice a day. It's a place where chickens have the right of way, crossing the road for those mysterious reasons known only to them, without fear of being flattened by an 18-wheeler, or any wheeler for that matter. Any reasonable person would be relaxed. I would be, if only I could stay away from the TV, or not read the newspaper, or never turn on my computer. But since I do all three of those things every day, I now have what has been recently diagnosed by a likable fellow who I pay to hear my problems as Generalized Anxiety Disorder. (Our health insurance plan does not cover Nervous Wreck.)

Apparently, unlike me and Bill Clinton, one is not really supposed to feel everyone else's pain. In my case, an overactive imagination has brought me to this sorry state. I wish I could turn it off, but the brain thinks what it wants to think despite our best intentions. For example, each time I walk through the village, a truly picturesque setting that could play any small New England seaside village in any movie, I am struck anew by its idyllic ambiance. As I pass the playground at the charming L'Ecole Francaise du Maine, a tony private school for folks who want to immerse their children in the French culture and language--don't ask me why--and hear the excited shrieks of the happy youngsters running around in their bright colors, I can't help but flash on the chaos that would ensue if a lone gunman went on a shooting spree right here in my little town.

I imagine the hungry media hordes flooding the town, with me an eyewitness being interviewed by the likes of Anderson Cooper and Soledad O'Brien. Who knows--if it were really bad, maybe Greta would come. (I like Greta, she seems so honest and trustworthy.) Naturally the thought freaks me out, but hey--it could happen....

Thank god for Lorazepam.