Taylor V.
Iron English
9/8/08

      I was in a race against the clock to finish the last Julius Caesar essay of the year.  It wasn’t that I couldn’t finish.  The problem was, it needed to be perfect.  Should it say, “He presents Brutus with the fact that they may never meet again,” or “Cassius realizes they may never meet again?”  I couldn’t decide!
      As I sat in the gray, suede ergonomic rolling chair, typing a single word at a time, my eyes began to wander.  The precious minutes were ticking by, but all I could focus on were the scratches on the desk, the way the last rays of light spread across my hands, and the little flashing icon on my dashboard.  I allowed my legs to push myself away from the screen, and I gazed down the stairwell.  An intricate painting, which I had honestly never noticed before, hung on the wall at the bottom.  Had my parents recently moved it from somewhere else?  I slowly grew more and more distracted by the scene, attracted to the 40’s style cars and clothing, the New York City skyline, the swinging jazz club with the quartet in front, and further and further away from the monotonous essay. I almost welcomed my mind’s rambling: I wish I could be one of the ladies in the red dresses talking to that “Joe Smooth” type of guy.  I wish I could be relaxing there with them.  I wonder how that evening would have turned out.  I do own a red dress…
      Eventually, I got back to stressing and fussing over the essay.  As the sun set and the moon began to rise, scrutinizing every word became progressively less appealing.   My eyelids were growing heavy, and I was slumping lower and lower in the chair, despite its support.  I was done worrying about this essay.  “He presents Brutus with the fact that they may never meet again” would have to do.
      In my life, this is a frequent scene.  I’ve grown accustomed to worrying about everything, whether it’s an essay, or what we’re eating for dinner.  There’s no better way to put it: I’m a perfectionist.  You see, I’m never truly relaxed; I’m simply LSTU (less stressed than usual.)
My dad has always been the opposite, nonchalant about everything.  He seems to know things are going to work out, while I need constant reminding. Despite my personality, I can’t take full responsibility for it.  I got the “worrier gene” from my mom, who likes things just as perfectly planned and executed as I do.  Sometimes, we do clash with the laidback men in my family.

      We were driving through upstate New York many summers ago, when my mom suddenly asked, “Where are the passports?”  She slowly turned to face me, and I realized the implication of her words: we’d forgotten them.  We were well on our way to Toronto, and we needed our passports and birth certificates to clear customs.  Despite my anxiety, turning back, apparently, was not an option.  The rest of the afternoon was very tense, and the piles of luggage cramped inside the car didn’t help our attitudes.  My dad finally noticed the looks that had spread across me and my mom’s faces, as we unsuccessfully racked our brains for any possible reason that border patrol would have to let us through.  “Those who worry, walk home,” was all he said, with a mocking grin that he soon shared with Trevor from the rear view mirror.

      By the grace of some higher power, we managed to reach Canada without the proper identification.  Although I worried from the moment my mom asked about them to the moment the officer told us they weren’t entirely necessary, I didn’t have to walk the 500 miles home.  That was simply my dad’s way of telling me that my fretting over our forgotten passports was pointless.  
      For as long as I can remember, I’ve been this way.  Looking back, I’ve realized that I used to truly believe that stressing, worrying and fussing was the only way to do well in school and in life.  I would end one bout, and when another duty was placed in front of me, the cycle would start all over again.  I believe Freud would have defined it as a conflict between my id and my superego, the desire to stop the task fighting the need to finish.  Of course, this was completely subconscious; I wouldn’t purposely draw the battle lines in my head.  It just seemed to happen.
      Thomas Kempis once said, “Acknowledgement of our weakness is the first step in repairing our loss.”  He was right.  I’ve acknowledged the problem, and am on my way to fixing it.  The only thing standing in my way now is, well, myself.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I want to be irresponsible; I just want to find a balance.  Hopefully, one day I’ll be a hybrid: relaxed, but not careless.  I’m slowly getting to that point, but for now, I guess I’ll have to settle for settling.