Raw Fish and a Realization
by Anne Powell
I was starting to panic. It’s me or the sushi.
Between the rubbery texture and my dad’s stories, I’m surprised I tried it. I was more surprised that I was trying it again. Last time, tears were streaming down my face as I gagged on a piece of halibut.
This evening, at the other end of the table, Becca was having a similar problem—she was spazzing over an as-yet-unidentified half moon of tofu floating in her soup.
“Ya know,” I said, “the real problem is freaking yourself out.”
The guy across from me smirked. “So, you workin’ up to that piece of albacore?”
Oddly enough, I liked it.
I had to chew on it for a while, but I liked it.
I’d been thinking about it too much. I’m always like that. I go to an art museum and become so concerned with whether or not I should like Jackson Pollock and whether or not I should be moved by bowls of fruit that the experience is wasted. At a party, I wonder how people see me and whether I’m interesting or not and is it really possible to drift seamlessly from one conversation to the next? I don’t have a good time.
When I sit down to write, my idea is drowned with: “Would I like this if I weren’t me?” “My editor is going to think I’m hopeless.” “This is a bad opening.”
I can’t get anything done.
Like the sushi, it’s never as bad as I think it’s going to be.
Even if it is bad, it isn’t really that bad.
