*Update* I did totally fine, remembered to breathe and everything. Then came back to work and submitted my time sheet, estimated my check amount with the new hourly rate, and swooned with glee: sooo worth it.
If you want to read the original freak-out, feel free:)
Why did I agree to give a presentation about the clinic tomorrow morning to a bunch of
scary people in suits who are more professional and well-off than me lawyers? I hate public speaking. I had an out- the director’s out of town; she left it to me to decide if I wanted to do it in her place.
Why do I have some nice business casual clothes for winter but for summer I got nothin’? Why does my entire warm weather wardrobe consist of second generation hippy skirts that fit my mom- who was six feet tall- but not me, who am five five? Why do all my fitted t-shirts make me look like a porn star? (That one’s easy. Two letters: DD.) Why couldn’t I have gotten paid for the invitations last week and have a nice (punkish, but nice) haircut right now?
Why am I intimidated to take my funkalicious thrift store shopping ass up on stage (I think there’s going to be a stage) and extoll the virtues of my beloved non-profit clinic if the audience members have tailored suits and more letters after their names than I do? And why did this come up the week of my first nasty zit explosion since pre-pregnancy?
[Meltdown] And also, I am an environmental fuckhead: washing a single shirt in the washing machine.
I am a lunatic. This is soooo no big deal. They asked for us specifically, they already want to give us lots of money and to learn more about the awesomeness of us. I know all about why we are awesome and am an eloquent grown up woman. So. Where’s the rum?