Zen and the Art of Panic

I woke in the middle of the night having a big ol’ panic attack.

Ya see, I had a rental car last week and, first time ever with one of these, had a wee accident. OK, I wasn’t actually IN the car when it happened OR, for that matter, anywhere near it. I didn’t even notice the dent and crease (on the passenger, not driver side) until I was getting ready to return the Queen Mary (AKA “compact”) to Enterprise. I’m nervous enough, driving one of these boats versus my bantam Bix, and then to be hit and runned?

I’m guessing the deed was done during last week’s snowstorm day, in the mall parking lot while I was doing some random shopping.

So then, not only did I have to shell out the rental car fee, I had to part with my not insubstantial insurance deductible. OUCH! Later today, I’ll go to my insurance broker’s office and see if they can work it, since this was NOT my fault, so’s I don’t have to pay a rate increase.

That panic attack – I guess it was rooted in unnecessary financial worry. This, like the unexpected, big added cost of my recent Dublin trip, is def painful but it’s not gonna bankrupt me.

Adding fuel to the panic fire, mebbe, is this. The last time I needed to rent a car, was after I got TAB and I into a little fender mutilation while I was driving him to chemo. Yeah, NOT one of my proud, happy moments. I still feel horrible about it (the added stress that I caused my beautiful man) and this new prob with the rental has, apparently, triggered my barely below the surface anxiety/guilt over that difficult day.

There I was last night at zero dark thirty, trying to chill the fuck out and stop making tsunamis out of wavelettes when I remembered the new book I’d picked up whilst Awesome Cousins and I were at Boomerangs, The Ethical Assassin by David Liss. The title sort of sounds like a How To, the high toned version of Assassination for Dummies, no?

On the back side blurbs, the NYPost called is a “delightfully comedic thriller.” USA Today compared it favorably to Carl Hiaasen’s hilarious enviro-crime rippers. Lee Child calls it “hypnotic and addictive.” An hilarious, utterly absorbing, intelligent mystery is exactly what I needed. I jumped in and only put it down when my skin stopped crawling with high wire tension and Mr. Sandman came a-knockin.'

One funny bit – the assassin asks the 17 year old, unexpected witness – Lem, “what’s your favorite Shakespearean play?” The witness, equally unexpectedly, answers Twelfth Night. The choice fascinates the killer (Hell bells, I find it intriguing.  I would’ve guessed Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet). The young man defends, saying:

“It’s supposed to be a comedy but it’s really kind of cruel and creepy. The play’s villain is the guy who’s actually just trying to restore order.”

To which the Ethical A responds:

“Interesting. Shakespeare’s overrated. Now Milton. There’s a great poet.”

Yup, I was already sold on the story (and writing) but then this utterly odd, improbable, very funny exchange went down.

Between the rollicking tale and a nice little tot of Slane's Irish, I was able to finally get some shuteye. Today, I gotta continue to get my Zen on. Being all jangly tensed out is no way to go through life. Dammit.

Mr. Sandman – The Chordettes