Alarmed

The other day I set my alarm to wake up early. There was, what promised to be, a rare estate sale, a luxury home filled with luxury goods, all appearing practically brand new, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to miss it. God forbid. I clearly needed to get there as early as possible to satiate my somewhat problematic long running addiction.

On the way, in my swanky car, still half asleep and a bit grumpy, I passed a homeless person, barely standing, selling the Contributor on the corner for $2 bucks who seemed to appear more cheerful than me on most days. I couldn’t help but wonder, does that homeless person on the corner possess some inner something that I don’t have? How’s that for a wakeup call?

With that thought piercing my brain, I ambled forward, a few streets down and another world over. The stately Green Hills home was, yes, filled with luxury everything. I couldn’t help but wonder if the homeowner had died and the family just said, “Sell it all!” Or maybe, it was a terrible divorce and both partners scattered to the wind, leaving it all behind. Turns out it was a wealthy builder and his wife who decided to up and move to LA and leave, what looked like their entire estate and lake home filled with practically everything designer in it here in Nashville, for us estate sale vultures to pick over. You name it, all high end, art, furniture, clothing, chachkas. And, yes indeed, I was there, standing on a line way too early for my senses, waiting to get in to try and nab the Prada and Ferragamo shoes for my son that I had seen online for this sale.

Once inside while scurrying like a mad woman amongst the insanity, my vision went blurry, I detected a slight headache and I panicked. Was I having a stroke? Was I going to drop dead right there? Would I inconveniently disrupt the madness? Would someone then say at my funeral, “Well, at least she died doing what she loved?”

Every time I have an ache or some unidentifiable pain, I immediately think, is this it? Is this the diagnosis waiting to take me down? This is no way to live. What’s happening to me? Have I become the hypochondriac I accused my ex of being? I mean, I do recognize myself to be a little bit on the anxious side, a little bit of a worrier, with, you know, little pockets of misery, reserved for good measure, stuck somewhere deep down inside, that all the therapy in the world somehow has not yet been able to clear up, and quite honestly, maybe shouldn’t. Maybe my own inner angst provides me some empathy for others in pain.  

Or, I ask myself, are my pockets of inner angst and unsettledness, a response to the political idiocy and uncertainty of the world at large? Or, having watched this year’s Met Gala red carpet and feeling like I just witnessed the real-life version of the “Hunger Games”?

Or am I creating more angst for myself, walking around this huge home filled with countless people, me included, grabbing the remains of a life richly lived while homeless people are out on the corner selling the Contributor for a 1/3 the price of a Starbuck? How do I quell the anxiety? Do I just need a good vacation, time in nature, to remind myself of the beauty and rhythm of life outside of my workaholic, materialistic oriented life?

Truth is, it’s a hard nut to crack, torn between the world of the suffering and those who appear to have it all. Which is why I have found myself back in synagogue on Friday nights, once again searching inwardly for some clarity and peace.  

And while I sometimes think a million dollars is the answer, and I’m tempted to buy that lottery ticket cuz hey, “You gotta be in it to win it” I try and remind myself, “You gotta be in life as it is to win it.”

Which is why instead of throwing that $2 down on a dream and a scheme, I take that two bucks and hand it to the homeless person out on the corner selling the paper and more than grateful to receive.