As a child, I had what I considered, a thoughtful practice: picturing the possibilities of something going wrong. A pessimist when it came to the things involved with me, but an optimist for those around me. There wasn’t room for accidents when I’d think about solutions or probabilities in things failing or succeeding. I hoped through this practice to remain keen and sharp like a tack, ready to do its duty and hold the paper that reads Star Student on the wall of my elementary school classroom. In a grand scheme, It could be my destined path of eternal over-performance and over-expectancy. I couldn’t accept the check your answers or explain your work during mathematical questions, I was sure what I wrote, was it. I was sure that exuding confidence meant finishing first during a math test intimidating the room with your #2 Ticonderoga pencil. I could recall a few moments in which my plans would peel off like the adhesive of Fantastic stickers, starting with my attempts at asking for ketchup at McDonalds. With all reason, I was tested on the responsibility—the golden trial—to grab a handful of ketchup. The question would pierce me like the undiscovered sharp pain, “grab some ketchup for us, please?” After I’d nervously oblige, in my head, I would start with the basics:
1. Walk to the cashier.
2. Ask for ketchup.
3. Put my hand out.
4. Receive the ketchup.
A four-step sequence that seemed to be fool proof, started by probing my space. I stood alone, watching the line of customers ordering their meals and others asking for condiments. As I watched, my plan—the tone, volume, and speed in which I’d ask the cashier—began to disintegrate and transition into bread crumbs. The social anxiety mixed with my own expectations of how confidence should be perceived overwhelmed me. I began to feel like the small, over-fried, french fry found at the bottom of a container. Each customer being served unravelled my ball of yarn, in which I expected to be solid. The loose string felt like my #2 pencil rolling away from my hand, reaching the edge of a desk. I could picture the pencil breaking its point after I’d sharpened the graphite so dearly. The unsteadiness of my desk didn’t help either, doomed from the beginning, the pencil would soon meet its maker and return to me in affected. I’d made up my mind that there was little possibility in any of this going right. With my decision made, I would shamefully walk back to the table and ask, “can someone come with me?”