I’ve read all the frickin books. I’ve done the meditating and breath work. I’ve trusted the universe. I’ve prayed, I’ve carried crystals, I’ve done rune casts, readings with spirit mediums, positive self-talk, manifesting…the whole nine yards.

You name a method to tame the catastrophizing beast that grabs onto uncertainty and holds it with a death grip akin to a cat guarding chicken bones dug out of the trash, and I’ve tried it.

What, you’ve never seen a house cat get ahold of chicken bones?

Then I’m afraid you haven’t reached your life potential. My childhood cat Mischief stumbled upon that treasure trove once, and he guarded that shit like it was the Mona Lisa during WW2. Meows became growls, and we eventually had to forcefully slide an encyclopedia across the floor to unseat him.

You get the idea.

Catastrophizing was one of my arch nemeses once upon a time, but I’ve done enough work to beat it back from being an absolute menace to my internal society.

Yet, I am not immune to its blasphemy.

Especially in the nomadic life, there is FAR more uncertainty than there are sure things. I never really know what my living situation will be like, if my bed will be comfortable, if my host knows how to properly wash towels so they don’t smell like mildew (see O Canada. I have PTSD from mildewy towel smell). I don’t know what my work commute will look like, if there will be a decent gym…and on and on and on.

None of that bothers me.

BUT I am human, and I do fall victim to some lapses in focus at my job. When my brain is fried after 2 days of 9 client calls covering 16 accounts and I jump in to try to play spreadsheet Tetris for budget recommendations, I’m wont to make a mistake or two.

Which is what came to light this week.

There was no actual error, no unauthorized budget spent, no call for a performance review by the client or my boss. Nothing of the sort.

But almost immediately, the fuck wad in my brain who has a propensityfor terrorizing me started in…

“You’re an idiot. How could you have done something so stupid? They’re going to cancel on you. You don’t pay attention. You’re supposed to be detail oriented.”

The sewer cap comes off the rabbit hole, and I’m about to jump in…

But then, my reading of The Untethered Soul and The Power of Now comes back to me. I am the observer and not the one doing the talking. If I can hear the voice, then how can I be the origin?

And yet still, the voice persists. It won’t be stopped. It’s ringing in my ears like the ice cream truck song…

Until I gave it a name…and Skinny Jean Gerald was born.

Gerald is a hipster who hasn’t seen the gym or the sun in 79 months, can’t bend his knees because the denim is tattooed onto his legs, and has perfectly coiffed hair and a moustache. He was an English Lit major and dropped out during his first semester at Kent Law School, only to become a Starbucks barista who mercilessly adds an extra helping of spite to every order he dishes up.

He is the anti-Ryan.

And suddenly, I have a visual to attach to the voice that catastrophizes. Instead of immediately latching onto and trusting those wildly unfounded ideas and beliefs, I see Gerald.

I snort out a few chuckles, wish him well in unzipping those yoga pant jeans, and I’m on my way back to real life, not assuming shit until the data is in front of me.

“You royally screwed up. You’ll never live this down. How can you even show your face on client calls anymore? You’re a disgrace.”

Gerald, you’ve never worked a corporate day in your life. Put a sock in it and go kick rocks.

If you can move your legs in those ballet tights.