Is this what a panic attack feels like? Can a panic attack last for hours? Days? I’m not sure if what I’m experiencing is age-related or scared-shitless-starting-a-new-business-related. I do know I’ve never felt anything like it. I wake up in the middle of the night and am wide awake. I can jump out of bad at 8am or sleep all day regardless of what I’ve done the night before. It’s 9:30 right now and I’m ready to go to sleep. I get weird bursts of inexplicable energy and wind up scrubbing cupboards, buying light bulbs, cleaning out the refrigerator or randomly chucking stuff into the trash. I can go all day and not remember if I’ve eaten anything or inhale a bag of peanut M&Ms in one sitting. I can stay in my apartment, online shopping for light fixtures and industrial sinks, or spend hours Photoshopping pointless memes about “patience” or “motivation.”
I don’t always know what day it is. My Christmas tree is still up. I managed to take the decorations off but…I was enjoying the pine smell. Except now even that has faded. This past week I got to see what happens when three professional men get into a weird pissing contest via emails. Let’s just say that even people who’ve gone to law school are still capable of acting like children. Of sending an email that says, essentially, blah-blah-blah, I’m gonna take my marbles and go home. Thankfully my fairy barmother was able to talk them all back from their respective ledges while I hyperventilated into paper bags and tried not to panic.
While waiting for the interminable wheels to churn — and let me tell you, nothing takes as long or is as laced and laden with red tape like opening a fucking bar in New York City — I mire myself in the minutiae of what I can control. I contact more DJs about mix CDs. I email more contractors. And I visited Faerman Cash Register Co. Lemme tell you, this place is like falling into a time warp. The 50-something proprietor introduced me to his 94-year-old father. “Did he start this business?” I asked. Nope, his father did. So I’d bet nothing has changed in this shop since a century ago. At least. Thank goodness they own the building, so they won’t get booted for some high-rise bullshit. But the guy has two daughters, neither of whom are interested in taking over the biz. Maybe some oddball friend of mine might become suddenly intrigued by cash registers? Join this man as an apprentice? Anyway, there wasn’t one new thing in the whole damn place. I ran my fingers lovingly over antique brass machines that sadly wouldn’t work for me because their cash drawers don’t have enough slots for more than one denomination of bills. Such a shame because they are beautiful. I’ll probably be buying one of the Good Boys 1900 models, pictured on the right. If you would like to read more about the unusual shop, there’s a wonderful article here.
I’ve also subscribed to Gaz Regan‘s newsletter and bought his book, The Joy of Mixology. I signed up for his “Cocktails in the Country” weekend seminar-type thing that won’t be happening until “the spring.” I bought a “passbook” to “Winter Tippler,” which gets me 15 fancy cocktails at 15 fancy cocktail bars. I’ve been Googling “best this” and “best that” to gauge drink prices, size up the competition and figure out what’s popular. I’ve been scribbling down ideas for crazy drink specials…or specialty drinks. And during those hours I wind up awake at weird hours, I worry about the millions of things that can go wrong.
So as the opening day is projected further and further into the future, I can only wait. And wait. And continue to obsess about all those little things.