“I like how she’s open and real and isn’t afraid to talk about things that affect her. Like her having depression and anxiety and stuff like that.”
“Yeah. I can appreciate that. I’ve been all eat up with depression before. Years ago. It was after my divorce, but I’ve never actually had anxiety attacks though. Nope. Never. Not me.”
That’s what I said about me when we were headed downtown Austin last night to see The Bloggess at her book signing.
Then we get to the book store.
We head upstairs. To this loft-y area. Where it is to all take place.
Katie had her book.
I had my book.
And Beyonce. In my purse.
Sticking her beak out the top and scratching my shiny, silver wallet all to hell in the bottom.
I. Mean. Friggin. Everywhere.
Why the shit am I starting to sweat?
Why is Katie knitting a WOOL sock?
Why the fuck are there so many people?
Don’t people go to church on Wednesday night anymore?
IS HELL THIS HOT?
Where’s the bathroom?
Oh, my God…is that sweat?
Then I looked around.
Bookcases were like skyscrapers around my 5’1″ looming stature.
People getting all talky and breathe-y around me. Blowing breath everywhere. No fans. No breeze. No nothing.
(That’s what it had to be.)
I swear I think that’s when I started getting all anxiety-ish. Didn’t panic. But seriously….GIVE ME SOME FREAKING AIR.
And The Bloggess is now 4 minutes late.
I’m out of here.
I had to get air. And I wanted non-previously-breathed-then-pumped-back-out-a-pie-hole air.
So, I went downstairs and sat on the steps under the loft area where The Bloggess would be speaking.
And it was cool.
And I stopped sweating.
And I could breathe.
And all that…that…well, ass-breath was upstairs.
And I was not.
I was good now.
Then I hear laughter and giggling and that wispy, kinda-high-pitchy-soft voice. The Bloggess had appeared.
I laughed from downstairs. In the cooler air. The cooler-non-ass-breath air.
A few minutes later when The Bloggess was done talking about diarrhea, laxatives and such, I snuck back up (is snuck a word?) and got in line with Katie for the book signing.
The line went fairly quick and before I knew it…there she was.
(It was a little like when I stood in line to kiss Jon Bon Jovi.)
(On the mouth.)
(Which I totally did not do.)
(But I have in my mind many, many times.)
There I was. I was standing at her table and she was signing MY book.
AND SIGNING MY BEYONCE.
In all her glory.
(I would say I thought I heard angels, but whatever it was I was hearing was cursing and well, no angels I know of curse so it was probably just me in my head.)
Pictures were snapped.
Not of me. Of Jenny. The Bloggess.
(I wouldn’t take a picture because, well I don’t take pictures.)
(And don’t think Katie didn’t question me up and down with, “Soooooo…you hate taking pictures, but yet you vlog? Yeah, THAT makes a lotta sense.”)
(And she did it in that I-really-am-trying-to-sound-like-I-don’t-think-you’re-a-jackass-but-we-both-know-you’re-a-total-jackass voice.)
Smiles were traded. Kind words of appreciation were heartfelt.
A total class act. The Bloggess has it going on.
(No matter how anxiety-ish she might sometimes get…she’s got it going on.)
Then it was Katie’s turn to get her book signed and well, she wedged those socks in the pic.
Which was completely fantastic to me.
Apparently, the anxiety I still refuse to admit I might have possibly had, was gone by this time.
(Damn ass-breathing people getting me all hot and flustered.)
There are things in life that mean something to you, but maybe not so much to others.
This sweaty book signing meant tons to me.
And it meant even more sharing it with someone else who understands and gets it and knows that excitement and buzz in the air and appreciates it as much as I do.
And I am so glad Katie was there.
And her sock.
Because this is something I will forever remember and having a sweet friend in that memory only makes it better.
And even though I think I know all there is to know about me…I don’t.
Because maybe I do sometimes have anxiety-ish moments. Maybe I do get that closed-in feeling when surrounded by sky-high bookcases and ass-breathers.
But I still refuse to admit it.
I’ll just stay clear of sky-high bookcases and ass-breathers.
Because it’s easier that way than admitting it.