Grip the wheel

The world is so big and bright; so many moving pieces and parts. The cockpit of the car is gigantic. I slide in and try to make a little space for myself behind the steering wheel. Breathe. Breathe. Find radio station.

I don't know where I'm going. The GPS shouts out directions and, even though I'm going below the speed limit, I miss my turn, again. I circle back. There has to be an easier way. I'd never find my way here in the dark. I can barely find my way in the light.

A panel; great. The 5 of them sit there, looking at me, asking those stupid interview questions everyone asks. They present scenarios and ask me what I would do. I answer as best I can, but I'm shaking. "Um, and then, um," I stumble. I can't get my sentences together. I'm still shaking.

The parking lot has ice on it. GPS back on. Home, Jeeves. The cockpit breathes in and swells; it's too big in here. There's no way this car is fitting in a lane. Breathe, breathe.

My fingers are swollen, rings don't fit. I'm nervous, full of anxiety. Energy, but not the kind that is going to get me to the gym. So I eat. Fill my face with cereal and peanut butter. Make it go away.