Temporary? Insanity

That was my first thought immediately after I did it. What on earth was I thinking? My chest felt all tight and scratchy and my stomach was flip-flopping the way it does when my body is considering going into full blown panic mode. Yep, I thought, it’s official. I am stark raving mad.

It’s not as if I did it on a whim even. I couldn’t blame it on a momentary lapse in judgment. I had typed up the invitations, printed them off four to a sheet on the printer, cut them out to the best of my I-can’t-cut-a-straight-line-but-can-get-close-enough ability. I’d handed them to people, smiled and chatted cheerfully. I’m sure I looked excited to be doing it.

All the while though, I was planting the seeds of panic. This isn’t the sort of thing I do. This is the sort of thing I contemplate doing, yes. The sort of thing I sit around whimsically wishing I would/could do. But such impulses are not for giving into, right? If I gave into every impulse I’d have flaming red hair, an extra hundred pounds or so (most of my impulses relate to food, after all), and be lying splatted at the bottom of a really tall cliff in southern Oregon (some people are afraid of heights – I’m worryingly drawn to them).

But no. I’d done it. Invited a room full of virtual strangers to come to my house every Tuesday for the whole summer. The community playgroup had drawn to a close, we’re not going on holidays this year so hey, why not?

BECAUSE it’s INSANE. Because it’s a committment. Because it’s a complete shedding of the comfort zone which is my social hermitage. Because strangers would come into my house and play in our messy yard, and be eaten alive by OUR mosquitos. AND to top it off, I offered to make snacks EVERY week! And THEN, I blogged about it with LOTS of capital LETTERS.

Breathe, Kim, breathe.

So I had a full week to give into panic off and on. Such fun. Ah, the roller coaster that is life (for a fab post on that subject, please click here). This morning I got up early so I could shower, get the kids ready, tidy the house, make mini-muffins, tidy up the yard, and so on and so forth. It was exhausting. Especially since I usually spend that time dozing in my pajamas on the couch while the kids run amok.

10am rolled around, and people began arriving. And here is where the surprises started blossoming.

1) The panic subsided. Hmm. Strange, that.
2) They looked happy to be there.
3) Their kids and my kids played NICELY (again with the caps, oi).
4) Myself and the three other ladies chatted quite happily while our kids played and got thoroughly dirty.
5) Nobody complained about their kids getting dirty (good thing because sand & water table = mud table).
6) I had fun.
7) I was sad when they left.
8) I’m so glad they all said, “See you next week!” when they left.

And biggest surprise of all, I’m left wondering what other risks I can take. What other leaps outside my comfort zone might yield me. Because while familiar, a comfort zone really isn’t all that comfortable. It’s small, and stiffling, and a very lonely place to hang out on a regular basis.

I don’t want to climb back into it. Suddenly, I want to escape. But I’m scared that I’ll be smothered by it again before I find another way out. If that happens, bake me a metaphorical cake with a file in it, will you? Remind me how lovely it can be to be brave.