Guards! Impostor!

Some days I catch myself feeling uptight, just waiting for someone to call me out. Some days I feel like I've been far too lucky - that I'm not living my assigned life, but rather squatting in someone else's overly-blessed existence. I find myself on edge, just waiting for whichever deities happen to be lurking nearby to find me out and smote me back to my rightful existence. I look at this apartment and think "I'm not supposed to be living someplace this nice!" I mean really - I look out the window and think, "Shouldn't I be in some dingy apartment in Leesburg or in Atlanta... how did I end up in Switzerland?!?"

I wonder if this is how people feel when they win the lottery or inherit a pile of cash they never knew existed - thrilled and apprehensive. I absolutely adore my life here, and consequently, I spend more than a couple minutes a day waiting for the other shoe to drop. I bring this up because earlier today I saw a sign posted in the elevator. Nothing exciting - as far as my remedial French goes, I think it said we would have no hot water for a couple hours overnight for some reason, but before I managed to decipher it, the insane side of my brain (yes, that is the biggest part, thanks for noticing) started thinking, "Oh god - what did we do wrong? Are we getting kicked out?" On any given day when the doorbell rings unexpectedly, I catch myself thinking, "This is finally it - we're out." The stupidity of all that is there is NO reason for these thoughts other than my brain auditioning for "The World's Ultimate Pessimist".

My current theory is all this paranoia is just one of 31 plus available flavors of "fear of the unknown." When I lived in Atlanta and worked in the restaurant, I never really got used to hearing the kitchen guys start chattering away in Spanish. They all seemed to be nice guys, but there was just something about the language switch that always unnerved me - especially when it happened as I entered or exited their vicinity. I think I'm fairly safe in saying most of us know this paranoia: if you walk by and conversations switch to a foreign language, they must be talking about you. Well, try that one out while living in or visiting a "foreign" country... my ears hear the French and the Swiss German and my head immediately goes, "What did I do? Is there toilet paper on my shoe? Did I tuck my skirt into my waistband again? Did I step in dog doo?" I have to remind myself they aren't the ones speaking a "foreign" language - I am. When Mr K and I chat away in line at stores, I wonder if we give other people those "are they talking about me" heebie-jeebies or if this paranoia is somehow uniquely American.

Despite all this nonsense in my head, it's a gorgeous day outside today and I'm looking forward to jiu-jitsu tonight... just don't ask me about the torturous French class of yesterday... I'm still trying to "oublie." Meanwhile, check out and vote in my snazzy new poll, located in the right-hand column, right at the top!