I suffer from anxiety. Which is to say, generally, put me in a new place, with a new job and new co-workers, and I should, at this moment, be a nervous wreck in anticipation.

And yet, here I am, totally relaxed about tomorrow.

You might think that I’m learning to relax.

But you’d be wrong!

I’ve torn up my closets. I’ve got boxes of crap that I’ve been going through, dividing into piles: keep, toss, eBay. I’ve got laundry in the machines, and I’ve even been going through the drawers of my dresser. I scour the internet for affordable housing in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia, and what I find gets subject to a strict list: Do they allow pets? Does Google maps show it as being close to the Metro? I e-mail friends: Safe neighborhood? Walking distance to shopping? Meanwhile my mind asks annoying questions: what bookshelves am I going to keep? Most importantly: what books am I going to give away or donate to The Book Thing?

I’m too worried about this. I know that. I’ve got three months. But from the moment I sent a certified letter (with a return receipt) to my landlord Saturday morning informing them that I will not renew my lease, I’m committed, even more so than I was when I said “Yes!” to the job offer a week earlier.

I wonder if anyone will buy my Chi-Chi’s uniform shirt on eBay …