Things have stopped clicking.

I’m starting to have panic attacks, or the beginnings of them.

In the mornings, I apply to jobs and worry over what to say in my cover letters. I make sure I spelled people’s names correctly, that the date is correct, that the spell check did its job, that I even wrote down the correct position title. Wait, is that even how you spell ‘neurological’?

I triple check. Seriously, maybe I should call a neurologist…..

And then I check again. “You’re sure? What? Okay. All right. Sorry. Of course you know how to spell ‘neurological’, Dr —. Sorry.”

I submit. I hate clicking through that process online. I dunno. Am I sure? Uhm…. Should I confirm? Uhm… Pulling at my hair. Wringing my hands. Palms sweaty.

I spend my days this way while trying to hire for the position I’m currently occupy.

I go to the gym. I run until I can’t breathe.

I do phone interviews after my showers. I haven’t even been fully dressed for some of them which has been distracting. I make notes to harass phone interviewers a week from the day. I write thank you emails, leave thank you voice mails. I just wanted to call and thank you for taking the time the other day to interview and to reiterate my continued and enthusiastic interest in the position…. What position was it again? Oh, right. Job application #58290283475. I am so utterly grateful. I am soaking wet with appreciation. Please please PLEASE hire me.

I lie in bed and job search at night, bookmark/flag/hoist up giant neon signs besides job descriptions I should submit to in the morning after a few restless hours of sleep. Eyes burst open. Heart is in my throat. Oh. Oh. It’s only 6 AM. Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.

And periodically, throughout the day’s process, I get light-headed. I feel as if someone is standing on my chest while his friend is shoving a screwdriver through my eye and the third guy is vacuum-sucking the air out of my lungs, and all the white spots are starting to form and grow until they begin to hold hands and the vast whiteness is almost complete when I finally come to, one hand reaching out to steady myself on the walls and the other hand reaching up to my neck as I begin to breathe again.

This is right about when I start web-searching for private health insurance plans, and then have whole new brighter attacks once I see how much they cost. And I am practically kneeling on the floor, crossing myself, praying Obama is elected because if not, I am running across that border and taking up Canadian or Mexican residency, renouncing. Otherwise, I’ll be suffering full-blown heart-attack-like panic attacks from the idiocy of this country and its new President-Prom Queen combination.

I heart autumn.

Patches of trees down 580 were changing colors when I was home and I marvelled that the summer was almost over, unbelieving. The air in CA was too warm, too light to feel like fall, so I pushed the thought from my mind. Convinced myself that I’d be back in NY and still enjoying my summer.

But when I came back, I found reasons to wear my down vest. People look at me and want to hold me. Everyone seems to like the soft rolly-polly look once scant-clothing season is over. People have gone in for double hugs. And I am all grins, snuggling down into the puffy comfort, zipping up to just under my chin, opening my arms.

I swapped my tube tops, tiny tanks, tissue-thin t-shirts, shorts in for thicker skirts, sweaters, things with the words “merino wool”, “angora”, “cashmere” in their labels. Today’s outfit involved a thick black sweater dress and last year’s equestrian-style knee-high boots. I’ve seen Uggs coming out, which is a trend that needs to dead and buried– although, I can empathize. Spending winters walking on what feels like a cloud is incredibly appealing.

My down comforter is out. I luxuriate in bed, amongst my pillows, with all of my blankets. Once I’m underneath it all, you can hardly tell I’m there. At night, the cool air comes in through the window and my body is humming with warmth beneath my four-layers-cake worth of bedding, one leg slung lazily outside of it all.

I wish there were somewhere I could move where it was like this all the time. Then the idea of throwing down thousands of dollars on all the new fall clothes wouldn’t seem so silly.

I love love-rap.

This is one of my favorites: Common’s “Faithful.”

I was rollin’ around, in my mind it occurred
What if God was a her?
Would I treat her the same? Would I still be runnin’ game on her?
In what type of ways would I want her?
Would I want her for her mind or her heavenly body?
Couldn’t be out gettin’ bogus with someone so godly
If I was wit’ her would I still be wantin’ my ex?
The lies, the greed, the weed, the sex
Wouldn’t be ashamed to give her part of my check
Wearin’ her cross, I mean the heart on my neck
Her I would reflect on the streets of the Chi’
Ride wit’ her, ’cause I know for me she’d die
Through good and bad call on her like I’m chirpin’ her
Couldn’t be jealous ’cause other brothers worship her
Walk this earth for her, glory, I’m grateful
To be in her presence I try to stay faithfulFaithful to the end
Faithful to the end
Faithful to the end
I’d like to be her very best friend

He worked with her, she was his lady’s best friend
Even if they don’t try some ladies test men
And this was a test that was bigger than him
Some believe its the nature that is given to men
He had a good gig, a wife, a kid, a decent home
One reason or another couldn’t find peace at home
She asked, “Why do men always have to stray?”
He said, “I’m bad, not as bad as Eric Benet”
“I used to take ‘em out to eat but they wasn’t really eatin’
Mighta got a little head but I wasn’t really cheatin’”
It’s hard when your lady don’t believe what you say
And what you did in the past you gotta live with today
She asked if they could spend the night together
He thought, and said, “I’m tryin’ to get my life together”
Went home to his lady, these were his confessions
“Baby you a blessin’ and my best friend”

Faithful to thee
Faithful to thee
I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be so faithful
I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be so faithful

I am friends with girls who EAT

[at the gym, we're stretching after some light cardio]

CH: [doing some weird pretzel stretching thing that only dancers are capable of] So what now?
me: [lying on my stomach, chin in my hands, my feet swinging behind me] I’m not sure.
CH: [continues further pretzel-ing] Are you going to do work out your arms?
me: [perplexed by the differences in our bone structure] I could. I probably should. I’m hungry though.
CH: [sits straight up] OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH. Me too. What should we eat?
[here, we break for ten minutes to talk about bbq, sushi, italian, Japanese comfort food, Chinese soup dumplings, South American tapas, big steaks... as a woman behind us on an elliptical machine glares at us while dabbing at her drool with her gym towel]
CH: What about Korean?
me: [eyes alight] OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOh. Korean!!!!

[We both jump up. I go find my personal trainer who is training another woman.]
me: Hey. I’m gonna go. Can we reschedule?
MH: What? Where are you going?
me: [points at the clock, and with the best duh-voice I can muster] To eat.
[His client, sweating, ego bruised, straining through her last few reps of intense ab exercise, loses her breathing rhythm, fumbles, and then drops her weights. She stands up to stair at me, slack-jawed. She turns to him to see what he does, braces herself for the lecture that should ensue.]
MH: Wha–? [guffaws]
me: [confused]
MH: Oh, you’re not joking. [begins ten minutes of laughing] Oh, wow. That’s serious.
me: [innocent, beaming] Ok! Bye!
[MH's loud laughter is heard throughout the two floors of the gym.]

[Cut to the end of our meal at Kunjip in K-town. Me, grateful I wore an elastic waistband, sipping my sweet tea. CH, finishing off the last of a kimchee pancake. Four big empty plates in front of us and six smaller plates crowd our table.]
me: [sighing, satisfied] You know. I love that we can eat like this. Though truthfully I could probably eat more.
CH: [very serious] Oh yeah. I’m not, like, deathly full or anything.
[pause]
[We burst out laughing.]
CH: So. Seriously. Pinkberry? Or Red Mango?
me: Oh, man. I totally love you. If I were a dude, it’d be over. We’d be married.
CH: Oh, you know it.
[And then we go to Red Mango, walk around a bit, city lights substituting for stars, laughing and enjoying our appetites.]