The Brown Envelope: A Panic Attack in Paper
The brown envelope, with its small, opaque window, has been sitting on the kitchen counter for two days, then three, now almost a full week. It’s moved, physically, from the precarious stack of bills and circulars to a more prominent spot by the fruit bowl – a sort of intentional purgatory. Every time I walk past, a cold wave washes over me, starting somewhere in my gut and radiating outwards, tightening my chest by two tiny, but noticeable, increments. It’s not just the colour; it’s the weight of expectation, the implicit accusation that emanates from something so innocuously official.
I tell myself, “Just open it. It’s probably nothing.” But my fingers won’t cooperate. They feel like they belong to someone else, someone whose courage quotient is a measly 2. The dread isn’t just about a potential fine – though the thought of shelling out an extra 272 pounds or more certainly adds to the chill. It’s deeper, more insidious. It’s the terror of being officially exposed as an impostor. Someone who’s been playing at business, making it up as they go along, completely oblivious to the grand, intricate rulebook that true professionals understand implicitly. It’s the moment they pull back the curtain and say, “Aha! You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
Anxiety Level
Anxiety Level
I remember locking my keys in the car just last
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