The anxiety is like a third child. I have to manage her carefully. She’s a tough one. Today, she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to go far from the house. Still, I push the issue. I drag my anxiety to Rite-Aid, to the pet supply store, to the Thai place for takeout. I stop at the bike place as well. I need a beach cruiser. I need to burn off this energy.

Anxiety says UH-UH, GET HOME, OR I WILL MUCK WITH YOUR INTESTINES. She is stubborn like that, my anxiety. I know she means business. When she wants home, she wants home, and her own bathroom.

Nothing is coming out right today. I can’t find the words. At the Rite-Aid, I stutter, I stumble on my words, I flush from cheeks to neck. Anxiety is constantly pulling on my leg, pulling on my heartstrings, clinging to my neck, crawling onto my shoulders. I want to put her down for a nap, but she’s having none of that.

What would help? I miss my animals in Massachusetts. I miss my female friends, especially, across the globe. Women seem to understand anxiety. They talk about such things. I miss my daughters, who have been away for a month with their dad. I miss my mom, who is being a very good sport about caring for my animals while I am here in Southern California. The split-life is tough for a homebody, despite the fact I am lucky to have it.
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Two newscasters, both impossibly thin with shiny blowouts and jutting calves, make chitchat as they wait for the plane to arrive. Several cameramen jockey for position. Those of us who have been sitting at Gate C2 for an hour, waiting to depart, wonder whom the news teams are expecting.

The airline personnel seem to know what’s up. Every few minutes, they offer the news teams an update: They’re in range. The plane’s in range. Any minute now.

Another passenger notices that I am scrutinizing the situation, like she is. She sidles over to me. “Who are they waiting for?” she asks me.

“I was trying to figure that out myself,” I said

Other passengers approach.

“Do you know?” “Have they said?”

“No, we’re all wondering.”

A diverted flight, a hijacker? A politician? A celebrity, A- or D-list?

Our flight has finally been listed as delayed. This is not exactly news to the growing crowd at C2. What we want to know is who’s due to arrive.

A young African-American cameraman to my right is explaining the excitement. I strain to hear his words: “A little girl from the Make-a-Wish Foundation. She’s going to the Saratoga Ballet.”

“What did he just say?”

I feel dirty passing along the information. This is no Lindsay Lohan.

“It’s…she’s a little girl…from the Make-a-Wish Foundation.”

The woman who first approached me bites her lip. “Oh,” she says.

I nod.

The woman’s daughter trots over. “Who is it?” she asks us.

“Come, let’s go back to our seats,” says the woman.

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I get panicky when the girls are away. They’re with their dad, visiting the Canadian side of the family.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Which means, naturally, I start worrying about inanimate objects.

Like, I snapped the shampoo bottle closed WITHOUT LETTING AIR BACK IN. So my poor shampoo bottle was bent over at the middle, squished, suffocating for air. I quick popped the hatch so it could inhale again, then exhaled myself in relief. It was a life-or-death situation, despite the fact that shampoo bottles DO NOT HAVE LUNGS.

This is how I roll.

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