Worry

I am my mother's daughter. A worrier.

I worry about normal things: Did I remember to pay my bills? Did I turn off the stove?

I worry about friends and family: Did my husband make it to work ok in the storm? Is my friends husband lonely now that she's taken the children and left him in that house?

I worry about silly things: will this fat free, no sugar added muffin impact my waistline?

Lately, I worry about scary things, like will I see red today?

And last night, as I attempted to seduce slumber - I worried about her. She's an average height, average weight, African American woman. She's not someone who you would notice as you bumped shoulders on a subway or shuffled past her on a sidewalk. But if you are lucky enough to catch her eye, you might see it. And if you listen to her speak, you will know it. She is amazing. And next semester, AJ is going to be my faculty mentor.

She was my first choice. I skimmed the list of other authors and professors, but it was a formality. AJ was the one that I wanted. She is challenging. She isn't a pat-your-back professor. She's going to push me. For the past two semesters' I have slid by, writing when it suited me (and when the husband and baby allowed.) I have worked with wonderfully warm and witty women who are both accomplished authors, but who have also, well, given me some slack; and lots of pats on the back. AJ is a single mother who runs her own company and teaches alongside Toni Morrison at Princeton…I don't think she knows the meaning of the word slack.

And that is why I'm worried.